Hunger (KatnissxFinnick)
by suffocatedsinner
Summary: Like Finnick Odair, Katniss Everdeen has been forced into becoming a sex slave of the Capitol. It's Finnick himself who teaches her the ins and outs of the art of seduction and it's Finnick, also, who teaches her that being free of the arena doesn't mean the Games end - in fact, they have only just begun... (Katniss/Finnick fanfiction) (Some smutty chapters)
1. The Hungry One

**Finnick is introduced next chapter! This is the introduction so it may seem a little boring for you but stick around! It gets better next chapter. Oh, and I hope you enjoy my story. :)**

* * *

The world outside is drab. Always drab, always washed, always empty. Everything seems that way now. Everything always seems bleak and horrid and worthless and _I,_ in turn, feel worthless. A Hunger Games Victor - as if I deserve such a title. I didn't do much; Peeta fought for me. Peeta kept me alive. Peeta made sure I won. How can I accept this role when he should be the victor? He would have been the victor had he not been pulled down - down into those _mutts_. I couldn't even find it in me to kill him. I just watched. I just watched and wept and hated.

I wonder how much more disgusted I can get before I truly lose myself?

It's raining now. Gently, yet in fierce slashes. I tap the window with my nail, then trace a trickling rain drop. In no less than ten minutes, I will have to get up on Caesar's stage and talk about how _happy_ I am that I won. How _devasted_ I am that Peeta died.

Oh, God. Peeta. Peeta should be doing this. Peeta is a good voice - a voice of reason and justice - and he should be the voice, the face, of the Hunger Games. Yet he's not. I am.

And he is dead.

I tell myself this everyday; I am alive. He will not come back. I've been told that, because of my mental disorientation, it's healthy to start with small things and accept them, then accept the large. I do it now because I can feel this foggy headache of tension building in my temples and I close my eyes. My hand presses up against the cold window pane.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I survived the Hunger Games. I am in the Capitol. I have a sister called Prim who is alive and I have a mother who broke when my dad died. We fended for ourselves. Gale is waiting for me in District 12. I will go back to him - to them. Peeta is dead. I will survive. I have killed people. Peeta has not. I am alive. I do not want to be alive._

I don't feel that it helps.

The knock at the door is what pulls me from my reverie. I know it is not my Prep Team or Cinna, because I have already been through that; they had cooed and fawned over me, told me how amazing I was, before summoning Cinna. He told me he was sorry. Told me he was glad I lived. He did not tell me he was happy for me, or that he was proud of me. I'm glad; he has no reason to be proud. I'm not.

"This will help you make a statement," he had said, zipping up my dress. "Look at yourself."

I did. I saw a girl with long hair and stained diamond eyes, staring blankly into a lengthy mirror at herself in a dark gown. It was beautiful - it is beautiful - truly. With a low neckline and long, lace sleeves, the dress reaches down just past my knees in an elegant sweep, piled with thin layers of varying lengths of the darkest plum. There are ebony patches in the dress - some of the bottom layers are, mainly - and I find myself liking it. It speaks for me. _These Games have scarred me_, it says, _and I am not longer sweet and sugary. I am a different Katniss._

When I look over to the door I see Effie Trinket skipping inside as she titters at me. "We're going to be late!" she says, pursing her golden lips - the colour of my Mockingjay pin. "We must leave, Katniss. Chop chop. Caesar is waiting."

I accept this and push myself up, a little unsteady in the black heels I'm wearing since the Games. I haven't worn them for a while now and I hadn't really ever worn them before I arrived in the Capitol; these things take time. When I reach her she pulls me outside and tugs shut the door. Then I'm being pulled down the corridor, away from the private lounge in a few moments I will be interviewed by Caesar. And I'm not sure if I can fake a smile. Maybe he'll just ask me about Peeta. About how I feel. That will be okay. I won't have to lie then.

I am filled with sorrow at the loss of the boy with the bread.

"Now," Effie says as I hurriedly match her pace; she's still gripping me by my forearm, "Haymitch is already there. Drunk, unfortunately." She stirs in her irritation at my mentor but I would expect no less.

"Okay," I say simply. I stumble over for a moment because of the heels.

Effie glances at me and sighs. "Oh, do try to look happy, dear! You won the Games. Smile and wave and answer with whatever pops into your mind - like you did last time, remember? That was wonderful."

I nod. Of course I remember. How could I not? The fiery dress, the awkward, nervous replies. I will probably be the same today.

"Cinna is there, too, of course. He apologizes for rushing out. He had some sort of business to attend to with your Prep Team, I believe."

Again, I nod. He had already told me this. "Okay," I reply again. "That's fine."

We are there now. I stand backstage, listening to the deafening crowd and watching the blur of lights. I briefly wonder if I'll black out but don't let it worry me for long. I doubt it will matter if I do.

"Oh, Katniss," Effie pats at my cheeks, trying to lift them. I swat her hands away. "Do try to-"

"-To smile," I say. "Yes, Effie. I understand. It's _fine_, okay?"

Effie's sigh is heaving and resigned but she doesn't get a chance to speak before I'm called to the stage. Instead, she only shoots me a thumbs up, grimacing at my misery.

I feel sorry for Effie. Maybe that's what forces my lips to press up into a smile - or maybe it's a grimace. I don't know. Either way, this is not her fault. She doesn't know better. I should try and understand and act okay for _her_ sake because she wants it.

_What about what I want? What about what Peeta wants - wanted?_

The thoughts are trampled out by the blinding lights as I walk on the show. I watch as Caesar pushes himself up out of his chair and smiles broadly at me, letting out a loose laugh through his gleaming teeth. He's okay, Caesar. At least.

The roar of the crowd combined with the buzzing of my thoughts and strobe lights has my head spinning and my vision, for a second, streams white - but then I am holding Caesar's hand as he introduces me and after, we plonk down in the seats. My head is still spinning. My vision goes out of focus, then back in. My hearing is muffled.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I survived the Hunger Games. I am currently sat down being interviewed by Caesar Flickerman, who is trying to see how I feel about my victory. I do not feel it is a victory. Prim is waiting for me. I must get home. I must do this. I will be okay. _

"So, Katniss," Caesar starts. He sits back comfortably in his chair and shuffles, folding one leg over the other. "You're looking beautiful. Radiant, even. Any chance the girl on fire is wearing her flames tonight?"

I desperately search the crowd and spot Cinna. Just seeing him makes me breathe deeply, in and out, and relax. I even smile slightly - and then Cinna shakes his head as an indication to the answer. "No, no fire," I reply, my straying eyes locking back on Caesar. "Not tonight."

"Well, I'd say it's a shame," he says, "but after your encounter with fire in the arena, I imagine you're fairly pleased."

_Yes, the fireballs. The Capitol fireballs. _"As long as I don't burn to death, I'm okay," I say. This gets the audience chuckling as if I'm their little, dancing monkey._ I'm not your puppet!_

Caesar chuckles deeply. "Right you are," he says. "So, how do you feel about winning the Games?"

"Alive," I answer flatly. "Unlike some people."

For some reason, this elicits another laugh out of the audience and one of my hands tightens into a fist by my side, hidden by the voluptuousness of my dress. I find Cinna in the crowd again because I know he's not laughing; he only meets my eyes and shakes his head discretely, about as unamused as I am.

This is sick. This is all sick.

"Like Rue," Caesar says softly. "She's gone. That scene was very touching."

My throat suddenly constricts and I keep staring at Cinna but I'm startled and I _know_ it shows. My eyes hurt. Have they always hurt, or is it tears? I don't know. I never know, do I? I'm so lost. I'm hopeless. I'm useless! My eyes, my hands, my ears... they're all working overboard. This is why I _don't know;_ and my chest is thumping, too! Useless. Useless, useless, useless.

I choose to stay silent, though my fist tightens into a firmer ball.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I live in District 12 with my Mum and my sister and my best friend is called Gale. I survived the Hunger Games. I a-_

"What were you feeling in that moment?" he asks. "It seemed to us that she reminded you very much of your sister."

Something seems desperate to escape the cage of my body. My veins are uncomfortable and my heart is rapid; something stirs and ebbs frantically in my chest. "Yes," I say quietly. "Prim."

"Primrose Everdeen." Caesar nods thoughtfully. "To think, you'll see her soon. Is that why you sung to Rue? Why you decorated her in flowers?"

_Decorated! She is not - was never - an object!_ "No," I say fiercely. My eyes snap back to Caesar's like an elastic band. "I did it because she deserved it; because she was too young to die; because her family deserved it."

It's silent for a moment and then clapping breaks out in the studio. Caesar calms them after a moment. "I see. And you felt... obligated?"

"No!" I look back out to the audience. "I wanted to!"

"And what about Peeta?" Caesar asks.

My muscles spasm then freeze. My teeth clench. Sensation after sensation thunders through my body - emotion after emotion. My hard eyes meet his. "What about him?"

Caesar continues in a softer, more sympathetic tone. "Did you look after Peeta because you wanted to?"

"Yes," I breathe. Then I remember the pretense: "I loved him."

Everyone visibly sinks in their seats and their hearts drop with them. "But you didn't kill him," Caesar states. "You didn't kill him to save him from the mutts."

My eyes squeeze shut. My breathing falters.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I come from District 12-_

"Why, Katniss?"

_I come from District 12 and I have a family waiting for me. I survived the-_

"Katniss?"

"Because I _couldn't_," I snap, eyes pinging open. They are filled with tears. "I _couldn't kill the same person who kept me alive so long ago. I couldn't!_"

"Oh, the bread, yes," Caesar nods. "That was heart-stopping, in that cave. Truly beautiful."

I feel myself stiffen because he's not going to move on. _He wont. He wont. He never will. They need their damn show to be perfect and revealing and-_

"Katniss?"

I blink, looking up. "What?"

The audience laugh meakly. Just from the sound, I know I will not like the question. They are in suspense. They are sad. I will not like the question.

"I asked if that was the only reason you couldn't kill Peeta."

"I loved him," I answer again. I only feel numb now. "I couldn't. It is selfish but I couldn't. I couldn't kill him. Maybe it would have been merciful. Maybe I should have. Maybe I regret it more than I'll admit - but I couldn't kill him. Never."

The studio is dead silent. I see tissues.

"He wouldn't be able to kill me either," I continue. "We loved each other too much."

The silence remains until everyone has got their tissues. Then, the sobs explode. "_Oh, Peeta!" _this, "_oh, Katniss!"_ that. "_What a tradgedy!" "How could this be so?" "The doomed lovers from District 12!" "If only, if only._"

If only is pointless. Peeta is dead. I am alive. We had no romance in the first place - but Peeta saved my life. I liked Peeta. Peeta loved me.

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I live in-_

"Thank you, Katniss. Truly, thank you." Caesar takes one of my hands and squeezes it, smiling sympathetically because he's a little choked up. "Now, shall we look at the best scenes in your Game?" he asks.

My eyes meet Cinna's. He knows what I am thinking. _No, _I am thinking. _No, because the horror still breathes in me. I can feel the lives of the people I have killed dangling on my heartstrings. I can feel my memories of that horrid place like poison in my lungs. I do not want to see my Game. I do not want to relive it. Peeta is dead. I am alive. I am the victor._

_No._

* * *

Bathrooms, I decide, have an infinite amount of tiles. Well, they obviously don't but I am not sure how much longer I can count them for. It is too much effort. So, we'll settle on an infinite amount seeming as it is time I get out of this shower. I will catch hypothermia if I don't. So, I turn it off and step outside, the cool air instantly swarming me. Not that it does anything for my numb skin, of course; I simply rub myself dry with a towel. It's because of this that I notice my hands and feet are badly pruned. I wonder how long I was in there.

Long enough for smoldering water to turn into ice.

Slowly, I pull on a thick, white dressing-gown and feel it's heat absorb me. My hands tie the cords around my waist subconsciously; I don't want to think, anyway. I have been thinking for far to long.

Stepping into my bedroom, I hope to pass out into a heavy and eternal sleep - but Cinna is there, sitting on my bed, and he stands as I enter. I wonder how long he's been sat here.

"You did well," Cinna says. He walks forward envelops me in his arms and the second he does, my head flops onto his shoulder.

"My emotions got the better of me," I refute. "I did not do well."

Cinna pulls back and clips his hands firmly on my shoulders. "You hid it," he says, staring firmly into my eyes. "You told the truth. Trust me, Katniss, you did well."

We pause for a moment and then I look away, raking a hand up into my hair. I face the animated wall of my room - currently, the forest. "Haymitch?" I ask.

"Asleep," Cinna says. "He waited but you've been in there for a while."

My eyes flicker to him. "How long?" I ask. I trace one of the trees.

Cinna looks indifferent. "Two hours."

"And you waited?"

"For you." Cinna walks up to me and grasps my hand. "Yes."

There's a silence for a moment. I know Cinna wants to apologise and I do, too but I'm not sure what for. We've already apologised, though. We've already said what there is to be said. Instead, we simply hug each other. Tightly. Warmly. Firmly. I watch the wind rustle the trees of the forest and wish, desperately, to be there. If only. If only. If only.

_If only is pointless._

I miss Gale. I miss Prim. I miss Rue. I miss my mother. I miss my father. I miss Hazelle. I miss Peeta - I really miss Peeta. And even, in some ways, I miss Haymitch.

"Oh, Katniss." Cinna pulls away, eyebrows knotting together. "I almost forgot to tell you; Effie Trinket came by and told me that President Snow has requested to meet with you in his garden tomorrow morning. She'll guide you there." He pauses for a moment as it sinks in. I do not know how to react and I don't. "I'm sorry."

I frown. "For what?" I ask. He hasn't done anything wrong.

It immediately becomes apparent, however, that Cinna isn't apologising for something he's done. He's feeling sorry for me.

I rephrase the question. "Why?" I ask instead.

Meeting me dead in the eye, any trace of emotion vanishes from Cinna's face as he says, "Whatever the President has to say, it wont be good." Solemn. That is how he looks. _Solemn_. "And you will not like it."


	2. The Hungry Two

The stench of perfumed roses is unforgettable. I learn this when I step into President Snow's garden and millions and trillions of roses greet me, smiling up at me in their sickly scent. It must be artificial because no rose smells so _sweet_, so _strong_. It is a lie.

Carefully, I take hold of one of the roses closest to me - a white one, trimmed neatly with perfectly folding petals - and jump slightly when it pricks me. I don't know why. I guess I wasn't expecting it. Which is funny, considering I should be used to surprises now, what with the Hunger Games.

"Excellent choice," resounds a deep voice which is, above all, instantly recognisable "The white ones, though simpler than the coloured, are much prettier. Don't you agree?"

I turn around and face the President. "I'm not a fan of roses." I wipe the prick of blood from my index finger.

President Snow bares his teeth and tucks said rose into his pocket. I do not move closer to him. "They're not for everyone," he says. He beckons me towards him as he sits on a bench and I, begrudgingly, follow him. Thoughts buzz wildly in my system but, surprisingly, I barely acknowledge them. "So, my dear girl-"

I repress a gag of disgust. His breath stinks of blood. Thick, suffocating, _fresh_ blood. And he reeks of that rose. _These_ roses. These horribly perfect specimens of foul sugar-

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am from District 12. I need a new technique to calm myself down. I hate this one._

"-how are you coping with the attention?"

I frown. "All victors deal with this attention."

The President chuckles deeply and I regretfully inhale a waft of roses and blood. _How? How is this? How can this be?_ He stinks of it. I hate it. It drowns me, tears me, makes me nauseated. "Oh, on the contrary " he says. "Some less so than others. Finnick Odair, if you recall, was famous before he even stepped foot in the arena."

Yes. I remember Finnick. I still see him, sometimes, as a Mentor. I watch him stride about his District on the television or watch him at the Reaping, or I've seen him in the Capitol before - only glimpses - but...

"Right," I say, "but not me."

"No," he agrees, laughing. "Quite. In the arena, however, you were quite the catch. Those parachutes you received .. They were not too cheap, you see."

A knot of dread ties itself into my stomach - no, wait, my stomach is the knot of dread. "I see," I say, slowly, as if I don't understand. Yet I do. I know what he's going to say...

"And your sponsors have been requesting - well, compensation." President Snow pauses, his thick red lips tugging up into a smothered smile. "Compensation I'm sure you'd be happy to give them."

My heart thumps. _Rage._ How dare he suggest..?! "President Snow," I start firmly, trying to contain my anger. "I'm sleeping with no-one. It was their choice to sponsor me, not mine."

"Nor is this your choice." He pauses for a moment and just as I'm about to snap, says, "Well, unless you want something to happen to dear Primrose or your mother - and even Gale Hawthorne."

I freeze. My muscles, my heart, my breathing, my sight, my hearing - it all_ pauses_. This is not a choice. Not by far. They can't die or be tortured simply so I don't... so I don't have to...

"You do it," President Snow continues, adjusting his lapel, "and your family will not be hurt."

_Your family will not be hurt._

They will be hurt if I don't do it.

They will be tortured.

They will be killed.

My mouth goes dry. My heart thumps loudly, once, and my blood rushes through my ears. "There's not a choice," I say dryly, repeating my thoughts aloud to check this is really happening - to be sure this is true, this is real, and that I am not having a nightmare. "Not really."

President Snow leans back, inhaling deeply. "Maybe not for you," he says, "but for others there has been."

I pause, my thoughts wild. How is this happening? Is this happening? God, I feel dizzy. I need to sit. Oh, wait. I am sitting. I need... I need...

_My name is Katniss Everdeen. I have a best friend, Gale, little sister, Prim, and mother. I won the Hunger Games. Peeta died so I could win. I did not kill him. I am sat with President Snow. Everyone I love will die if I do not give up my body. I cannot let them die._

"Finnick doesn't sleep with everyone he does by choice," I say suddenly. The distaste in my voice is evident above everything else and I stare at him stoically, coldly. I can taste the blood in his heavy breaths; smell to stench of the roses as they choke me. "You made him."

"Oh no, Miss. Everdeen," the President says, smiling wickedly. "He just chose his family over his self-respect. Can you do the same?"

Anger. Pure, blinding anger, bubbling up inside of me. "Yes," I answer through gritted teeth. Finnick. Finnick is a prostitute by force. I am a prostitute, or soon to be, by force. I am disgusted.

I, along with the rest of Panem, misjudged Finnick.

President Snow chuckles - a self-satisfied, throaty laugh that bunches my fierce emotions together in a string of profanities. "Good," he says, "I will call you or write you - whatever suits me best."

Oh, the nonchalance he speaks with has the devil inside of me thumping against my rib-cage I hold it in because what good will it do? Snow doesn't care. I don't care, not really. I bet Finnick doesn't, either. We both just want to keep out families safe. And this is the only way.

"Maybe you and Finnick should talk," Snow says, lips curling into a wry, disgusting grin. "By now, you two should have lots in common."

* * *

Finnick is taller than I seem to recall. His skin is more golden, his hair more buttery and bronze and his eyes are more green. He is very handsome, all right. His famous eyes, a deep sea-green, are incredible. He is irresistible to most women, I'm sure - but I'm not most women.

I meet him as I brush down a horse for relaxation. He is meeting me here because I asked for it; I asked Effie to arrange it and she smiled knowingly about 'falling for his good looks' and asked him to see me. Evidently, he said yes - I didn't stick around for the answer - but I know it as soon as the crunching hits my ears.

"Hello, Katniss," Finnick says.

I turn my head to look at him but keep stoking the horse, pretending I'm okay with him being so close, when really it just makes me uncomfortable. "Hello, Finnick," I reply. His eyes are centimeters from mine.

"Want a sugar cube?" He offers out his hand which is piled high with them. "They're supposed to be for the horses but who cares? We almost died once upon a time and... well, I take my rewards where I can get them."

Finnick is, of course, referring to our titles of victors. He won the Hunger Games at fourteen-years-old and captured the hearts of most women - of course, they couldn't touch him at that age. That didn't stop them goggling. The second he hit sixteen, though, they were all over him. Snow must have forced him into it, like me. It disgusts me. Revolts me. I wish I could punch that man with a rose-scented brick.

Finnick Odair is then, of course, extremely stunning. How is he so athletic and healthy when he eats cubes of pure sugar? No, scratch that: how is he so seductive and sensual if he eats lumps of sugar? Maybe it makes him sweeter. I bet that's what the Capitol says.

"No, thanks," I say to the sugar. "The money is reward enough."

Finnick only smiles and wets his lips. I know this drives most people crazy but not me. Not really. "Oh, I haven't dealt in anything as common as money for years," he says.

"Then how do I pay for the pleasure of your company?" I might as well ease into the conversation.

Finnick, however, remains cool and collected. He tilts his head so his lips are almost touching mine. "With secrets," he says seductively. "What about you, girl on fire? Do you have any secrets worth my time?"

For some stupid reason, I blush. I watch an easy smirk slip onto his lips. "Perhaps," I say. "I know that President Snow's breath smells of blood."

Finnick chuckles and leans further forward. His sugary breath washes over me. "Oh, Katniss." His voice is smooth like silk and rich like syrup. "I know _why_."

I hold my ground. "Are you not even going to ask me how I know?" I ask. My arms fold over my chest as I watch him toss another sugar cube in his mouth, leaning against my horse. He seems to think it over but if he is, he's doing a great job at looking otherwise. He simply looks like he's sucking and biting on his sugar cube, doing a marvelous job at being seductive whilst he does so.

"Yes," he answers finally, sugar cube swallowed. "How do you know that?"

Finnick will understand, surely, if I say this. He must. "He asked me to go and see him." My eyes never leave his. "In his garden."

I watch the understanding pool in his sea-green eyes. "Unfortunately, I think you're trying to tell me he's looped you in, too."

Unable to face him anymore, I turn back to the horse, stroking down it's strong neck. "Yes," I say. "Do this, do that, or everyone I love dies."

Finnick inspects a sugar cube. "More like do him, do her." The furious glare I shoot his way has him apologizing and smiling grimly. "Sorry," he says, "I know it's not funny. I make jokes about it because I've... well, I've lived with it for so long I've accepted it."

"No," I say. "You haven't."

"Careful, girl on fire," he says with a smirk. "Secrets are a price. _My _price. And unless you make them yours, too, you wont be finding out any secrets from me."

I look up at him. The proximity between us is a little larger now - only a few centimetres. "I don't need to," I say. "I know how you feel because I'm in that situation now, too."

Finnick doesn't say anything. He simply feeds the horse a sugar cube.

"I'm an open book, though," I say. "It seems everyone knows my secrets before I do myself."

"Unfortunately, I think that's true," he murmurs. His eyes flicker off to the side for a moment then return to me. He pauses, then says, "You have two minutes to kiss me."

The blush colours me again and I actually stumble from the shock a little. "What?!" I cry, furrowing my eyebrows. "What?"

Finnick laughs. "I'm only joking, Katniss," he says. He winks at me. "If you want. I do need to leave soon, though. I have a..."

"An appointment?" I suggest numbly. My body suddenly feels as empty as my head. "Sure."

He doesn't say anything, again, for a moment. These brooding silences of his are really starting to get to me and I don't know why. "I know you want to talk," he says, "so here's my floor number and phone number. I'll tell them to expect you. My room is to the left, on the left. Got it?"

I accept the card which is sprinkled in little granules of sugar. "Thank you," I say. "I'll come and see you tonight."

Finnick Odair gives me another award-winning smile that brightens up his sea-green eyes. "That you will," he says. He leans in, breath brushing softly over my face, and whispers seductively, "Just don't act too eager. People could think you're falling for my charm already."

My eyes try to narrow but my mouth is too busy distracting my brain with the amount of saliva it's secreting. His lips are a centimetre from mine. His eyes are so deep and crystalline that it's hard to look away from them.

I am an idiot.

"Right," I mutter, and tear my attention back to the horse - but even I can't resist watching him saunter off, plopping another sugar cube into his mouth as he goes.


	3. The Hungry Three (Smut)

The lift is as large as it has always been, with mirrored walls and marble railings. Of course, Capitol would have nothing but the finest - especially for their tributes. It's always for the tributes.

_Eat all of this, drink all of that, and start all over again!_

Throw up to eat more - how revolting. How _sickening. _It's disgusting, the difference in economy from here to District 12. All the little people, all the hard workers, suffer whilst everyone in the Capitol sits back and enjoys their free and needless lives. Everything is handed to them on a silver platter; we are all pawns in the finely tuned machine that is the Capitol - but machines can rust, pawns can fall, and the structure can collapse around you.

Maybe it already is but now is not the time to think about that. Now is the time to sort my thoughts, get my head straight, and _think_ - because I have no idea why I am on my way to see Finnick.

True, I'm ambivalent about the whole thing but that's to be expected; I don't _want_ to do this or be this person but I have no choice. So, yes, I'm ambivalent. I'm ambivalent and angry and nauseated and I want Snow's head on a spike - but Finnick can't help me with my emotions. What can he tell me that I don't already know? That I have to sleep with people? That my family are in danger - constantly? That I can never and will never be in a relationship with someone - like Gale, because that's what we had always planned - because the citizens of Capitol wont want to be with me and they wont pay to see me, and so Snow will claim his revenge?

_No. _I already know all that. So what can Finnick tell me that I don't already know? Why am I even here?

Just as I think that, the lift dings and I read '_Forth floor'_ from the glowing letters overhead. Then the doors open, security inspects me and tell me Finnick's waiting, and I am free to enter. So, I do. I step in the warm, open threshold and look around - it looks much like my own floor but perhaps more._.. District 4_ - and follow Finnick's instructions. _To the left, on the left._

His room is neat and tidy - not what I expected but then again, what was I expecting? - and I sweep my eyes over it quickly. Large bed, dark dresser, armchair, an animated window much like my own (which I note Finnick has set to the ocean) and adjoining door.

_No Finnick._

Where is he, I wonder? Isn't he supposed to be here? Then again, isn't Peeta supposed to be alive and isn't everyone _supposed_ to be happy? I guess this is just another one of those things. Maybe I'll wait - only for a few minutes, to be sure he's truly not here.

Wondering aimlessly around the room, I run my fingers over the silken bed sheets and pillows, eyes searching the abstract art on the wall. _Capitol art,_ I think bitterly. _Always in the form of the rebellion._

And they are. They are all dark and they, in some way, show the 'evilness' of the Districts - 13 in particular. I feel the anger - the anger which clings to me no matter how much and how hard I try to shake it away - froth and foam in my chest and my shaking hands clench with my teeth. I flicker my gaze away, only for it to rest on the broad, swishing waves of the animated ocean - and right in front of it, stands Finnick.

If I thought he looked good earlier, I was wrong. Now, he looks... indescribably good; seductive and sensual, charming and cocky, slender and strong. And wet.

He is so, very wet.

His body, golden and sun-kissed, gleams as the droplets of water run down his chest to his corded abs which stand out in sharp relief. I admire the slight curve of his back and waist and the distinguished 'V' on his hips, which disappears under his towel, before my eyes trace up his strong biceps to his neck. Light, crystalline tears gently drop from his light bronze hair, which is darkened from his shower, and trickle down his neck...

Then suddenly, the muscles there contract as he chuckles. "Like what you see?" he asks. He runs a hand through that hair of his and his sea-green eyes lock on mine as he takes two steps forward, his body inches from me. I feel his warmth as it radiates from him and seeps deep into my pores, strangely soothing. And his eyes, his famous eyes, never leave mine. They enrapture me.

My throat suddenly feels tight.

Finnick, blowing a wisp of hot, minty breath over my face, leans in close to my ear and whispers, "It only costs a secret."

_A secret._

My muggy mind concentrates long enough on that one sentence - on those two words - for me to remember that I'm here because soon, I'll cost a secret, and only Finnick can understand.

_No._ That's not why I'm here at all. I can feel the reason, prodding around in the back of my mind, shoving it's way through my thoughts and slumping in exhaustion, tired of trying to be recognised. _Keep trying_, I urge. _Keep trying._

Meanwhile, I take a step away from Finnick and his half-lidded eyes and try to control my breathing. "I'm okay," I say, annoyed at my blush. "Thank you."

He grins wickedly. "Right," he agrees. "You're okay."

I purse my lips but Finnick, with a small laugh, turns his back on me and saunters over to his dresser where he pulls out a tee-shirt and boxers. "So, I'm here," I say.

Finnick glances at me, amused. "So I can see." He shuts the drawer. "By all means, say what you came to say. Ask what you came to ask."

Without me realising, a frown slips onto my features and I stare at him, lost. What happened to him earlier? He seemed so understanding, so sympathetic. Now he just seems a little uncaring.

"Never mind," I say. I start to walk out but Finnick catches my arm and, when he does, the towel drops from his waist and my eyes follow it, widening.

He doesn't even care. "Katniss," he says. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that. I care, I do. I want to talk."

I'm not sure I can talk, though, because the realisation of why I'm here has just slammed so hard into my gut a sharp gasp escapes me and my eyes jut up to meet his. _I came here to sleep with him._

How startling.

"Right," I agree. I sit down on the bed as Finnick tugs on his boxers, throwing his towel over the armchair on top of his tee-shirt I wait until he's sat down beside me. "I'm just..."

I wriggle awkwardly. How do I say this?

"I'm not sure what is... expected of me."

Finnick looks grim. "Nothing. So long as they have you, they don't care," he says bitterly. "Show up, do what you need to, and leave. Snow doesn't want it seen as prostitution though so you need to put on a bit of an... act."

_If you don't, your family will pay._

The unsaid words hang in the air. "Okay," I say. "Like I want to be there?"

"More like you want to be with them."

A cringe makes it's way onto my face. "Right," I mutter. "Okay."

Finnick says nothing. A thick silence hangs above us and I can taste the resentment, the regret, the bitterness. Snow is the symbol of hate.

"And I'm not expected to have..." My mouth is dry, all of a sudden. "Experience?"

Finnick blinks at me. Then, in a second, he looks so regretful that I want to cry. "You're a virgin," he says blandly, trying the words out on his tongue. "Of course you are. Of course you are."

"It's okay," I say quickly. "It's fine."

"No, it's not, Katniss!" A flare of sympathy ignites his eyes, stricken by anger. "As I said, they don't expect anything - but _you_ should. Your first shouldn't be with some rich, fifty-something geezer wearing a blue toupée."

I smile, despite myself.

"It should be with someone you love - someone you choose, at the very least." His jaw tightens a little then looses as he sighs. "I gave mine up to one of my tributes, Annie, when I found out."

"I don't have anyone to give it up to," I say sullenly. "I got my first letter this evening. I have to meet Mr. Puckheart tomorrow at lunchtime. There's no time. I'll have lost it to a... a client, before I go home."

Finnick suddenly turns to face me, looking me dead in the eye. "Yes you do, Katniss," he says. "You have me. I'll take it, if you like. You can do this the way you want for your first."

_Have sex with Finnick Odair...? _

"I don't know," I tell him truthfully. I know I came here to have sex with him but... "We barely know each other."

Finnick smiles knowingly - but also in understanding. "I think you're lying," he says. "You don't want your first time to be with a Capitol person, do you?"

_Blue toupées. Purple suits. Pink eyebrows. Whiskers. Green skin._

I cringe, shaking my head at the mental image. "No," I admit. "I don't."

Sea-green eyes stare deeply into mine. Finnick takes hold of my waist, pushes me backwards on the bed, and levels his head with mine as he holds himself over me. His sweet breath washes over my face and a lone droplet of water falls onto my flushed cheek. "Then I ask again," he murmurs, leaning into my neck. His muscles flex. "Me, or them?"

Dry throat. Pounding heart. Swarming stomach.

The word crackles from between my parted lips. "_You_," I say, and as I do his lips make contact with my skin a soft kiss. "Unless-"

"Of course I want to, Katniss." Finnick suddenly sounds so caring and I see it, mirrored in his eyes, when he looks back up to me. "Don't say that."

I gulp. "Okay," I say.

Finnick doesn't reply. He simply smiles once then begins to lower his lips to mine, slowly, as if he's expecting me to refuse. I lie there for a millennium, gazing nervously up at him as he stares right back into my crystal eyes, his warm breath flushing my cheeks and gently flowing through strands of my hair. Then, I close my eyes as his lips touch mine.

He is gentle. Very gentle. In fact, he is so careful with me that I get slightly impatient and my hands, which are sat awkwardly at my sides, reach up and tentatively touch his chest.

A breathy chuckle blows across my lips. "I knew you liked what you saw," he says.

I don't reply. I don't reply because I realise it was Finnick's plan to have me touch him by using such a soft kiss, so he knows I am positive about doing this. And I am. I have passed. So, with this in mind, Finnick presses more pressure onto my lips, parting his own and, in turn, parting mine. His hands don't stray from holding himself up but, to show him I really am okay with this, I let my hands trace his chest then ghost upwards to grip at his neck. Our lips move together in a rhythmic dance and after a while things get a little faster.

Finnick, lowering his body so it's only a centimetre from mine, applies further pressure on my lips and moves his own a little quicker, still just as skilled, making me dizzy. He presses harder, kissing me with some sort of desperation now, and my nails involuntarily dig into the soft, golden skin in the nape of his neck.

I feel him smirk against my lips.

His lips, fast yet deliberate, move at just the right pace and fit perfectly with mine. I feel his body heat invade me slowly and I gasp against his lips, moving into him because it feels undeniably _right. _His taste, sweet and minty, combined with the flush warmth of his body and the strength of his touch has stars spouting behind my closed lids and I melt into him. His fresh scent mingles in the air about me and intoxicates me even further; his lips plundering mine firmly.

Suddenly, Finnick bites down softly on my bottom lip and I gasp in the back of my throat. My trembling hands worm their way up into his thick hair and I pull him down on me so every inch of his body is pressed to mine without any of his weight hindering me. Then, his tongue worms into my mouth and caresses my own and I oblige, not fighting for dominance but accepting that _he_ is dominant, and it works harder, faster, completely and utterly dominating me. My only response is a feeble mewl and a rake of my nails down his back.

Finnick groans, deep in the back of his throat, and something dark stirs within me.

As he ravages my mouth, pushing me further and further into an ecstasy like no other, my head swims and spins and I can feel my lungs burning with the need to breathe. I pull away, gasping but Finnick mercilessly swoops down and kisses my jaw. He works his way down my neck, biting and sucking and kissing, until he reaches the nape and when he does, a spark slithers down my spine and a breathless little moan parts from my lips. He bites the same spot again, as if testing it, and I moan just the same.

"Found it," he chuckles briefly, before his large hands encircle my waist and he picks me up, propping me up against the headboard.

Sat there on all fours, staring up at me with pink lips and disheveled hair, Finnick looks like a lion stalking it's prey. And I have a feeling I'm_ it_ - but there's no time to decide, because Finnick quickly presses himself up against me and my hands wind around him as he gazes down narrowly at me.

"Not bad for a beginner," he notes, grinning. He shoots me a teasing wink. "Very good, in fact."

My throat feels dry and, with a blush on my cheeks and in an effort to avoid replying, I push on the small of his back so our lips crash together again and he immediately teases his tongue against mine, his hands gripping my waist before travelling downwards and working their way up the inside of my top, shooting a new found lust throughout my body. He rests them at the skin just below my bra and traces his thumb inside.

I arch wantonly against him, the tips of my fingers pressing harshly into his back, my knees spreading further apart as he sits in between them and attacks my mouth with his own. The way his fingers skim across my flesh leaves steaming hot trails all over my body and I find myself running my hands around to his abs and digging my nails in before desperately gripping at the edge of my top. It proves difficult with the distractions but Finnick sees what I'm doing and tugs it off, over my head, leaving me in my trousers and cotton bra.

We don't acknowledge it. He simply presses his lips to mine, desperately, and we explore each other's bodies. I don't know how long we stay here, kissing hungrily and clawing at each other's skin before Finnick, in a slow, sensual movement, grinds his hips against mine and a groan of thick lust pours from both our lips. I feel him pressing against me as he continues, my own hips responding and bucking against him involuntarily, before my trousers are off and his boxers are shed, and we're rubbing against each other with rough moans and panting breaths. We kiss and we kiss and we kiss until our lips are chapped and sore and my body is alive with a desperation - a hunger - I have not fulfilled.

"Finnick," I groan, clutching desperately at his hair and squeezing my eyes shut. He bucks against me again and I whimper, my core hot and aching. "I - _now_!"

His lips leave mine to nip at and trace my jawline with his tongue, slick and skilled. His voice is thick and husky as he says, "You're sure?" and I nod desperately against him, writhing and bucking and sweating.

So, with roughened fingers, Finnick runs his hands down my body to my pants and pulls them off, kissing all over my breasts as he does so; my bra had been slung across the room some time ago. Then, adjusting his position slightly, Finnick places himself at my entrance as I gasp through my inhuman _need_.

"This might hurt a little," he says, regretfully.

I only shake my head, my nails piercing into the mattress as I grab for it and beg, "_Now_!"

And then, heaven is bestowed upon my body.

Finnick enters me slowly at first and it stings so much that I whimper. He cringes but desire is drawn across every single one of his features and he, instead, captures my lips with his own in a more gentle hunger but one still very much alive. Once I get used to the feel of him, I breathe an okay against his swollen lips and he starts tenderly thrusting.

In an instant, the pain leaves. All that is left is a pure, indescribable bliss that has me moaning and groaning, biting at his neck to stop from screaming his name when he gets faster and faster and his lips travel across every inch of my body. I arch against him and I writhe against him, sweaty and filled with withering, inexplicable thoughts which melt like scalding iron throughout my veins in ebbs of pure ecstasy I breathlessly repeat his name over and over, louder and louder, until I am so worked up even biting and restraining can't stop me from screaming his name.

"Finnick!" I shout, head slamming against the headboard. I press into him, coated in a sheen layer of sweat, as he thrusts into me again and again and again. My nails score down his arms, leaving a glowing red trail, and my abdomen quivers and constricts in thunderous pleasure. "Finnick, Finnick, _Finnick_!"

Finnick's hands grip harshly at my hips as he presses every inch of his burning body up against me, his head buried in my neck as he kisses, licks and bites at my skin, thrusting and grinding for all he is worth. His muffled groans tie in with my pants and gasps and screams, our moans mingling together in a cacophony of passion as my gratification is lifted to an obscene level - and I release with noises I didn't even know I was capable of making.

Finnick rides out my orgasm, making it seem unbearably long, before bursting into his own shortly after with a cry of very masculine bliss. He stays on top of me for a minute whilst all our senses calm down, then he rolls off. Our dry pants flush out into the air; our hot, sweaty bodies lift with each breath; and the tiredness that envelops me is so extreme, I can't find it in me to untangle my legs from his. So I don't.

And neither does he.

After a moment or so, when my thoughts are less dizzy, I say, "Thanks."

Finnick chuckles and, even breathless, he sounds so seductive. "My pleasure, Katniss," he replies fluidly. "Any time."

I don't reply. I simply let the aftermath of what just happened wash over me in a flood of all things good and holy and shut my eyes. My breathing is slow and deep and my heart pounds in my chest. Everything feels mindbogglingly _tired_ but so, inexplicably satisfied.

"I'm exhausted," I admit, still a little disorientated.

"Well," Finnick says with a smirk, "that's what happens after mind-blowing sex."

For a moment, his words paralyze me - _mind-blowing sex?_ - before I say, "Really? Mind-blowing?"

He scoffs, laughing. There's a note of fatigue to it, still. "Did you think all sex is that good?" he asks. "That was... incredible. Unbelievably so."

I bite my tongue when I go to tell him he's extremely talented in... this particular skill. It shocks me, for a moment, because it's so unlike me I'm wondering where the real Katniss has gone. "It was very good," I say, blushing. Am I always blushing around him? It's like I'm a whole new person. "I just thought-"

"Hang on." Finnick pushes himself up and I watch the muscles in his back smooth out. "Just 'very good'?"

I laugh, knowing where this is going. "Well..."

"Well nothing!" Suddenly, Finnick is on top of me again, peppering kissing across my jaw. "I'll show you how _'good' _I am."

My body tingles, waking up immediately. "Finnick..." I warn breathlessly.

He silences me with a long, drawn kiss that has my head spinning by the end of it. "Just 'very good'," he says, shaking his head in an amused disbelief because he _knows_ I'm lying. "Let's see what you say when I up-the-anti."

_Oh, God, he can do that?! _"No," I say hurriedly, already plagued with thoughts of torturous pleasure. "It's okay, really-"

Finnick only pulls me into another kiss and proceeds to drive my body wild, ignoring my feeble not-really-protests, and turns my world upside down again, and again, and again...


	4. The Hungry Four

**Ah, sorry for the wait! I feel pretty awful because of it. I've got other stories on other sites to write, however, and these days I've got more work to do than is humanly possible. Still, I managed to get this up! Sorry about any mistakes. I haven't managed to proof-read and edit this one, yet.**

* * *

I wake up in Finnick's bed which, originally, I did not intend. I simply wanted to talk to him, leave, then spend the rest of the evening spewing fiery curse words at an invisible President Snow and perhaps throw a few vases. Destroying things he'd paid for would have probably helped. That being said, we probably broke Finnick's bed last night.

The very idea makes a smile tug onto my lips.

Next to me, as my mind relays over everything we did - each other, namely - last night, I feel a sweet wisp of warm air brush over me and know it is Finnick's breathing. I'm wrapped up in his arms (I barely wonder how that happened) and it causes strong feelings and experiences of what happened last night to course through me which, in turn, makes a scarlet flush burn at my cheeks.

A deep chuckle reverberates through the hot mass of muscle behind me - Finnick. "Oh," he says with a hint of amusement. "You're awake. I thought you'd be asleep forever after last night. Even I'm still tired."

I let my eyes flutter open. They are immediately bombarded with strobes of warm, yellow sunlight which momentarily blind me until I adjust. "Morning," I mutter. "Sleep well?"

Finnick twists me in his arms and I get the feeling he's a little numb; but when I go to move, he only turns me over and pulls me into his chest. My lips settle on the skin just below his collarbone and my head tucks into the crook of his neck.

"Did I sleep well?" Finnick repeats. "Yes, I did. Did I sleep for long, though? No."

I glance up at him, suppressing a yawn; I feel unclean and a little grimy, so I don't want him to catch a whiff of my breath. "Why not?"

"We were up until six, Katniss." For some reason, Finnick looks thoroughly impressed. Or maybe he's just amused. "It's eleven now."

My heart stops. I go still, very still, in his arms. "Eleven?" My voice does not sound like my own.

His arms tighten around me. "Yes," he says. He knows what that means. _I have one hour_. "Do you want some breakfast? Or brunch, as they case may be."

I smile stiffly. "Sure," I agree. "Got anything buttery and filled with sugar?"

Finnick winks down at me. "You could always take me with butter. I'm filled with sugar."

"I think I had enough of you last night." There's that blush again. I'm beginning to think of us as old friends; whenever I'm with Finnick, it makes an appearance at least once. "Though, I suppose you'll say you can never have enough."

I could probably have some more, were I not so tired, hungry, unclean and - albeit - a little sore.

Finnick nods enthusiastically. "You can never have too much Finnick," he jokes. "I'm so damn irresistible."

He is. He knows it.

"You're right, though," he continues. When I look up at him in confusion, his sea-green eyes glint and he says, "You had me enough last night. I counted three orgasms for you on that last round."

My blush is horribly intense; withering and red, just the way Finnick loves to make it. It's even worse because he's right.

"So..." My voice crackles with embarrassment and I clear my throat as he laughs. "Breakfast?"

* * *

The Capitol _is_ as horridly bright and perfectionist as you would think, with it's multicoloured houses and perfectly trimmed, exceedingly lush bushes. Never is there a colour, stem or _leaf_ out of place, and the people are just the same.

Walking through the centre now, in a vain attempt to find Mr. Puckheart - whom I have been told has purple-tinted skin and white hair - I am stricken by looks of admiration and pity from many of the plastic puppets around me who all look like they belong in a circus, what with the cosmetic surgery and the dye and the cartoon facial features. One passing woman, who looks particularly enthralled with me, has nails three inches long!

The fashion here is... incomprehensible.

When I reach the large fountain the middle (inevitably, the sculptor that designed it was aiming for a Hunger Games nudist theme) I sit down and wait. Myself, being who I am to these people, I am instantly recognisable. I suppose it helps that I don't look like a colouring book come to life. Either way, Mr. Puckheart sees me immediately and beckons me over to his apartment. It is a large, golden block with blue tinted windows and I imagine it's _very_ costly.

"Katniss!" he purrs as I approach. "_Delighted_ to meet you."

He is so fake that it makes me want to rip off my skin and shove it down his throat, screaming at him that _I am what a human is!_ Mr. Puckheart, on the other hand, is no-where near human. His skin looks shiny and is the colour of a deep plum; his teeth are overly white, so much so that they blind me; his hair is like straw but he's slicked it back into a white quiff - a kind the people in District 12 would laugh at; and his eyes, dark and taunting, have quite obviously been tattooed. The whites of his eyes are now _gold._

I can feel my large breakfast stirring in my stomach and immediately regret that second pan au chocolat. I want to take another shower. "Hello, Mr. Puckheart," I say and force a stiff smile onto my lips. I bet Finnick is a natural and this, at acting happy and being seductive and... Well, anyway, I'm not. I have too much hate throbbing in my veins.

One day, Snow will die by my hand.

Mr. Puckheart laughs heartily. "Oh, please. Call me Le'Bron." Le'Bron mashes in the code of the apartment complex and ushers me into the lobby. "Mr. Puckheart does make me sound so... old."

Maybe that's because you are pretty old, Mr Puckheart. He has to be around forty or older. "Sure, Le'Bron." I shoot him - what I hope is - a seductive smile. "That's got more of a ring to it, anyway. Easier to... slip off the tongue."

_I will kill Snow. I hate myself. I will kill Snow. I hate myself._

Le'Bron laughs and punches the 'twelfth floor' button in the lift. The doors close with a soft slam and I realise, for one suffocatingly sick second, that I am alone with him. _And I better get used to it. _I'll be doing much more than... this, soon.

My stomach flops horrendously again and I clench my teeth. I have to keep this act up. I have to! For Prim and Gale and mother and anyone else Snow may kill if I don't. _I cannot be seen as a prostitute. That's what Finnick said. I have to sleep with this man and act like I... like I..._

Oh, God. I'm going to throw up. I can feel it.

"So, Katniss..." Le'Bron takes a step towards me and I try not to flinch away. He reeks of ink and some awful cologne that smells like Buttercup's piss. "The President tells me you and Peeta were never... together."

I nod and smile. Snow issued the report moments after my interview with Caesar. "_It'd be bad for business, you understand." _He'd told the citizens of the Capitol that Peeta was lying about us and that I had been told to play along so I didn't sabotage Peeta and make him look bad. He manipulated everyone into thinking that I was a martyr who saved Peeta from public condemnation, as opposed to liar who needed sponsors. Peeta was the good guy, not me. He helped _me. _

And now Snow has everyone thinking that I helped Peeta gain sponsors by playing the 'love-struck fool'. Yet another reason to kill him.

"That's right," I reply softly. I lean towards Le'Bron a little though every cell in me quivers and pleads with me not to. I am barely two inches away from him - a small victory for me, considering I'm not puking yet. "Why? Were you jealous of him?"

His eyes flicker to my lips and he gulps. "Preposterous," Le'bron replies smoothly. "I cannot be jealous of something that is false."

Running my hand up his shirt to fix his collar - though it doesn't really need fixing - I make sure that my breath brushes over his face. His hand hooks around my waist. "Why?" I ask innocently. Licking my lips, I cock my head to one side, never pulling my eyes away from his. "If you were with someone else I'd be _extremely_ jealous, Mr. Le'Bron."

Le'Bron grins and his other arm wraps around me. I choke on his scent almost knee him in the join right there and then but force myself to take long, deep breaths and calm down. _I'm doing this to save my family!_ I shout inwardly at myself. _Stop resisting. __**Do.**_

"Oh, would you?"

I nod enthusiastically. "Yes," I say. "I'd become the crazy admirer that scares off any woman you talk to."

Le'Bron chuckles. "Then perhaps I shouldn't talk to other women." He grins crookedly. "I'd hate to see them injured. And I have no doubt you could... overpower them."

I raise an eyebrow and laugh lightly. My hand presses up against his chest. "I take it I impressed you in the arena?"

"Impressed me?" Le'Bron doesn't smell so bad any more but his eyes are still repulsive. "Katniss, you completely enticed me. I like to see a woman with backbone."

"Hmm..." I tap my chin, as if thinking. "Is that _all_ you'd like to see, Mr. Le'Bron? My backbone?"

Every single inch of me is pressed up to this disgusting man. I suddenly get the overwhelming urge to hug Gale and have him tell me this will be worth it despite myself knowing that it is. I just... I need to know that I'm doing this for a reason. That someone agrees with me this is right because otherwise, I'm afraid I'll hate myself forever.

Yet I know my family. They'd tell me I shouldn't sell myself so they can live. They'd tell me it's not worth it. That this is wrong, no matter what; that my intentions were good - honourable - but wrong.

So maybe I'll just have to deal with hating myself.

Le'Bron Puckheart lets out a strangled groan. He presses me up against the wall. "No," he admits in a slight growl. "No, I want to see much more..."

Le'Bron leans in to capture my lips with his and as he does, the door _pings!_ open. I push him away from myself, faking laughter, and saunter out. I glance over my shoulder at my dazed client. "Then I suppose you should show me to your bedroom, Mr. Le'Bron, before I lose my patience and devour you here."

Le'Bron fumbles with the keys he pulls out of his back pocket. "Do stop calling me that," he says, and he presses the keys into the door exactly opposite the lift. "It's extremely distracting."

"I think that's just another way of saying enticing, don't you?" I glide a hand up his arm, smiling seductively once more. "Hurry up then, _Mr. Le'Bron, _before I have to kill a woman for so much as looking at you."

The door swings open and Le'Bron pulls me into a thick, slimy kiss as we stumble into the room. His hands reach immediately for my clothes and, once I've kicked shut the door, I let him have me. Completely.

He would never have guessed the poison I was feeling inside.


	5. The Hungry Five

Haymitch Abernathy is the kind of man I can respect. He can be a dirt bag at times but he is, truthfully, a person I look up to - because _I know why he is as he is. _Haymitch has seen and has been through a lot as a victor of the Hunger Games and now I've been through it, I can completely understand why he drinks all the time. _I_ want to drink all the time.

Sitting in my suite in Capitol, I watch as the man himself stumbles in and swipes up a bottle of whisky from the side. It's already half-empty. Then, Haymitch plods over and slumps down in the armchair opposite me. He kicks his feet up onto the table.

"Katniss, sweetheart!" Haymitch clumsily lifts the bottle to his lips and I can almost feel the trickling burn of the alcohol as it sloshes down his throat. "What a pleasure to see you. S'been a couple days."

He's right, of course. Haymitch may be drunk but he's one of the most sensible and organised drunks I've ever met - probably down to practice - so when he says a couple of days he means, dead on, a couple. And he's correct. I haven't seen him since I first got out of the arena and then with Caesar and Snow and Finnick... I'm surprised I've got a moment to myself.

Although maybe I shouldn't be.

For the past hour, I have been sat in this chair, staring out into the Capitol with a poisonous hatred bubbling up in my gut and slicing through my heart. In the first few moments, when I collapsed in the chair and looked fixedly at the wall, I was a muddle of unfocused emotions and I found it hard to register my breathing. Then, after a minute or so, tears welled up in my eyes. I dispelled them immediately, ashamed. Crying's fine, I guess. I just don't cry. Not even under such... horrid circumstances. I'd cry if Prim or Gale or my mother died - I cried when Peeta died, after all - but for this I can't. I couldn't. I understand that I'm a prostitute by force, that I'm mentally scarred from the Hunger Games and that my family and friends are in constant danger from the threat of President Snow but...

_One step out of line..._

Truth is, after I pushed the tears back, I went numb. And I've been set here, numb, ever since.

That was an hour ago.

"It has been a while," I say, barely looking at him. I watch the Capitol people scurry around, instead, and feel acidic resentment choke me. "How are you?"

Haymitch snorts. "Right. I should be asked that question."

Of course. He's never okay, really.

I don't reply.

"I should be asking how you are, _sweetheart_."

My breathing momentarily hitches but it immediately restarts. "I'm fine," I reply blandly. "We're going home in a few days."

Haymitch nods heavily, titling the bottle to his lips again. A few drops of the dark, shiny drink spills down his stubbly chin. "Five!" His voice is thick and heavy and it sounds like he's forcing the words out from deep within his chest. His eyes are half-lidded; I see it when I glance at him.

"Right."

There's a silence for a moment and I listen to Haymitch glug down gulp after gulp of his drink and hear the glass knock against his teeth. Then finally, pulling the bottle from his wet lips with a resounding _pop, _Haymitch exhales slowly. It's vaguely wheezy. "Sweetheart," he starts drowsily, "you've been sat there since four o'clock. Spit it_ out _already."

I ignore him.

Le'Bron Puckheart finally let me escape his clutches at half two in the afternoon. I had walked home, through the buzz of the market and the noise of the centre, feeling so unclean I wish I could have stepped out of my skin and scrubbed it. Instead, I settled on showering for an hour then, wrapped up in my usual fluffy dressing gown, I settled in my arm chair and -again- I haven't moved since.

I didn't realise Haymitch had noticed.

"It's five o'clock?"

Haymitch frowns at me but nods. "Yes, Katniss," he says slowly. "Grub's in two hours." He snorts. "As bloody usual. They always eat so damned late here!"

For once, I'm glad we're eating at seven. In District 12, if you were lucky enough to have a dinner, you ate at five. Or, whenever you could, really. Five was the ball-point. So, when I came to the Capitol I wasn't used to eating so late or so much - Peeta was the same, I remember. We'd talked about it often...

Either way, eating at seven - the usual here in the Capitol - tonight, means I have two hours to build up an appetite. _Why does it seem so impossible?_

Haymitch is suddenly leaning forward, the whisky bottle hanging loosely between his fingers in the gap in his knees, and frowning. "Come on, Katniss." His voice has picked up a measure of sobriety. "Talk to me."

I shrug nonchalantly but feel a crackly laugh break out from between my lips. It sounds twisted and troubled. "You know how it is, Haymitch," I say. "Snow's a bastard and I'm a victor! I'm his damned _puppet _now."

Haymitch remains cool and stoic, though a slither of a frown remains and adorns his heavy features. "Sure. We all are, sweetheart. Get used to it." He pours some more whisky down his throat. When he speaks again, this time breaking the second silence, his voice is rough and hoarse. "So what did he say to you?"

My gaze remains fixed on the streets. There are fewer people hurrying around now as it's growing fairly late for a Tuesday, and all the 'good TV' starts at five or so. Tuesdays are never a happening day in the Capitol. "He threatened me." I feel myself shrug involuntarily. "You could probably guess that."

Haymitch kicks his legs up on the table and burps. "When?" he asks.

"Yesterday."

"Where?"

"His garden." A strangled laughs breaks free of me again. "It stank of roses. _He_ stank of roses. And blood."

Haymitch snorts. "Always does!" His eyes meet mine, briefly, and bore into me. "What'd he say?"

I pull my eyes pull away again. "Nothing, Haymitch," I mutter.

Haymitch scowls at me. "Sweetheart, _what did he say?_"

My fists clench and I squeeze shut my eyes, listening to the deep, sickening voice of Snow rumble through my ears. _"Nothing!"_ I snap. My eyes ping open and I glare deeply at him through eyes filled with tears. "He said nothing!"

Haymitch leans back and watches me swallow my emotions for the umpteenth time that night. Then, guzzling down ten seconds worth of alcohol, he offers me the bottle and I hesitate briefly before snatching it from him. A cough rumbles from his chest. "He sold you," he states, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. His voice is thick, slurred and completely inebriated. "Thought so."

Not wanting to reply, I tip the bottle and watch the remaining alcohol splash around in the bottom. Then, I tilt my head back, bring the neck to my lips, and chug. The alcohol burns fiercely at the roof of my mouth and all down my throat but I keep swallowing because I can feel this numbness settling in my chest and I want the alcohol - the burning - to kill it. So I keep drinking and drinking, not taking a breath, and imagine the golden brown liquid pouring through my body and settling in my stomach.

I only pull the bottle from my lips when it's empty - and even then, I keep the neck clenched in my fist. My head feels foggy.

"Right you are!" I say. I give another bitter laugh. "Snow made me decide between my family and self-respect, just like he did Finnick!" I want more whisky - no, I need it. I need the damn numbness to _go._ "Others, too."

Haymitch, on wobbly feet, has brought over another bottle of whisky and the ice bucket. I watch him pour the drinks and I immediately reach out for the one nearest me.

Haymitch picks up the other. "Would've done it to me, too, if he had anyone to threaten me with - but he killed my mother and sister because of the force field stunt." He shrugs, and somehow the action looks arduous. "Didn't think it through obviously, cause then he couldn't sell me."

I scoff at Snow's idiocy, despite myself, and take a few sips of my drink. My head is really starting to feel... _light._ "He's a dirt bag," I mutter.

Haymitch chortles. Once he settles down and another silence suspends in the air, he says, "When's your first?"

A shrug. A wave of the hands. A sip. I don't feel in control of my body any more; it's fuelled on whisky and hate. "Had it. He was a plum-impersonator by the name of Le'Puckheart."

"Plum?"

"Purple-tint. Gold eyes. White hair." I swallow some more of the pungent drink. It's sleek on my tongue - and fierce. Like a bull or a tsunami. "Forty or somethin'. I don't know."

_Le'Puckheart? No. Le'Bron Puckheart. What's wrong with me?_

"Bloody Capitol," Haymitch mutters. "You talk to Finnick?"

I feel my head bob heavily. "Yeah." A blink. "Slept with him."

Never, _ever_ have I seen Haymich Abernathy caught of guard and never have I seen him spit out his drink - but suddenly, he leaps forward in his seat and sprays his whisky all over the floor. "_With Finnick!_?"

I laugh like it's hilarious - telling him all my personal details. "Yeah!" Another dreary nod. A giggle. "A lot."

"You were a virgin?"

"Yeah."

"Good on him for doing that for you."

"Yeah."

"Or, rather, just _doing you._"

We both chuckle this time, too drunk and too ruined to do anything else. "Was his idea!" I add, grinning. "He just liked me, I think."

Haymitch chortles once more.

When we reach the end of the night, we haven't eaten or moved. We've just been sitting here, talking, laughing and getting so drunk that our sentences barely make sense - but we understand each other. I guess that's because we're similar, really. We've been through the same stuff. Tormented by the same dreams.

And, of course, we're both so drunk we could probably speak to a tracker jacker without a thought about the danger or - indeed - the fact it couldn't reply.

I'll always respect Haymich. Maybe this is why.

* * *

The next morning, I wake up with most of my body on show and a headache that could make a man commit suicide. My throat aches and my forehead feels tense; I can smell the stench of alcohol smothering me and hear my liver working at a mile-a-minute.

A shower. That's what I need. Good thing I'm only wearing a dressing gown, else I'd probably get tangled up in my clothes and decide to suffocate to save myself the effort of stripping.

I decide that getting drunk is not the way to solve your problems. If anything, it just adds to them. Like this nausea, which has me throwing up into the toilet. Or my headache, which forces me to drink gallons of water and take several painkillers. Or, even, the fact I stink of alcohol. _That_ makes me take a shower that lasts for an hour and a bit, and I half expect every inch of my skin to prune.

When I finally exit my bedroom, my headache and nausea are more-or-less gone but I can feel them, sitting on the edge. One wrong move and I'll be turned back into the walking dead.

As it turns out, Haymitch and Cinna are waiting for me. Haymitch is already drinking again and I cringe; the very thought makes me want to throw up again.

Haymitch leans the bottle towards me and I shake my head. My headache bursts into my temples the moment I do.

"Better not," I mumble, and I take one piece of toast from the pile and butter it. I'm not hungry and the idea of eating turns my stomach but Cinna is sat watching me, telling me the best cure for a hangover is food. He specifies something greasy and warm, like bacon.

I do as I'm told, begrudgingly, and make myself a toasted egg and bacon sandwich from the mountains of food. This will never feel natural to me. "Happy?" I ask once I've eaten it. I don't want to admit it but I _do_ feel a little better.

Cinna smiles and says nothing. "Orange juice?" he offers.

I lick my lips. Orange juice is one of my favourite drinks - freshly squeezed, no bits - and we never get it in District 12. In the Capitol, however... "Thanks."

We sit there in silence, mostly while Cinna and Haymitch finish eating. As they do, I watch them, sipping at my drink and cradling my tense head. "I'm never drinking again," I state.

Haymitch snorts. "You will. Especially after everything you said last night."

Cinna shoots Haymitch a warning look. So, he knows, apparently. No thanks to Haymitch! Not that I wouldn't tell Cinna - but I'd much rather it came from me. Haymitch isn't exactly mild about stuff like that.

"Whatever." I don't regret telling him, not really. I feel a bit less burdened now he knows - and besides, it wasn't go to stay a secret. It couldn't. And that Finnick thing? That was bound to get out there. "What are we doing today?"

"Well, Finnick rang," Cinna says. He briefly glances at Haymitch, who's spreading some marmalade over his toast. "He wants to see you today, after what happened yesterday. He told me to tell you to go on up whenever you can - before four."

Haymitch snorts. "Just don't sleep with him again, sweetheart," he says.

My fingers twitch over my knife. "Right," I growl. "I'll be careful not to slip."

Cinna says nothing but I watch a little smile tweak at his lips. "And this came for you this morning, too." The man pulls a cream envelope from his pocket reluctantly. "From Snow."

_Snow._

I accept the letter with a firm hand, though inside my stomach is somersaulting. "Okay," I breathe. I quickly rip it open and unfold the note, which is written in green ink and fancy calligraphy, and read aloud, "I've been requested tonight at six o'clock by my most generous sponsor - next to Mr. Puckheart - Mr. Flugaal."

When I look back up at my stylist and my mentor, with something heavy hanging from my heart, they say nothing. Their faces remain blank and unreadable - but in their eyes, I can see it all. The hatred, the anger, the pity.

_I have no choice._

The legs of my chair scrape heavily again the floor as I push myself away from the table. "Right," I say. I stuff the note in my pocket. "I'm going to see Finnick. I'll probably be back soon."

They still don't speak as I leave the room. I guess hate does that to a person.

* * *

**For anyone wondering, we have one more chapter in the Capitol then it's back to District 12!**


	6. The Hungry Six

**So sorry about the slow update! I had a Physics exam last week and I have another two exams this week, so I've been pretty busy. Enjoy the chapter! I personally am not a big fan of this one (obviously, I've had more important things to focus on, though it pains me to say it!) but I felt bad I haven't updated, so here it is. I'll try edit it and improve it later, promise. **

* * *

Finnick is in his bedroom when I meet him, staring at the animation of his bedroom wall and watching the sea wash and stir. He looks strong as he stands there, with a straight back and tight, broad shoulders - but there's something in him that is different than it was yesterday. More defeatist.

I start to wonder just what Finnick really is. What he really _feels_.

Does anyone really know Finnick Odair? I sure don't. I know he's forced to sell his body to protect everyone he loves; I know he is amazing in bed (blush, blush, blush. Stupid blush!); I know he can use a trident like no-one else; and I know his favourite colour is blue. For the ocean. Yet none of that means I know him, nor does it mean I can understand him... but maybe I can start? Maybe I'm one of the only people who have a chance at ever understanding the complexity that is Finnick Odair? After all, we've both been in the Hunger Games, we both have to degrade ourselves by having meaningless and forced sexual relationships and we are both nostalgic - for our old lives and for our home.

"Hi, Finnick," I say. I close the door tightly behind me. "I'm... here."

Finnick turns to me with his famously crooked grin and quickly scans my face. "Yes, you are," he muses. There's a silence for a moment, then he cocks an eyebrow in both parts interest and amusement and asks, "Do you always do that? Announce that you've arrived when you've so very evidently arrived?"

My lips purse in annoyance. If he knew I was here, couldn't he have made it clear? "I just don't want to linger anywhere I don't want to be, so I make the whole introduction thing shorter so I can reduce the time-limit," I reply in a false sugar-voice; it feels as fake as the tone I took up when talking to the damned Mr. Puckheart.

He's going to hell for 'buying' a prostitute - for using me. And maybe I'm going to hell, too. For being used.

Finnick frowns and, edging closer, swoops down to meet me directly in the eyes. His hands flood warmth into my upper arms as he grabs them and I go to tug them away but he holds them there, steadily. It annoys the hell out of me that I stop struggling as soon as I meet his eyes; for some reason, they calm me. And of course, he's looking as good as ever and it irritates me like nothing else that all I can think about is the fact I'm hungover and probably looking like a dead rodent, when I have more important and less self-centred things to think about. Like how I'm going to keep ensuring Prim's safety. It's what I've done my entire life and I can't stop now just because the means are too 'icky'.

_President Snow will die. He will die. He will die. He. Will. Die._

Finnick does look as good as always, though. His skin is golden, his hair is perfectly bronze and his sea-green eyes are as alluring as ever. That doesn't mean I have to... to lose sight of what really matters, though. Screw how I look, screw how he looks, screw my hangover! Just think about the future of myself and my family and how to keep them safe. Since when did I, Katniss Everdeen, care about how I look anyway? Never. And I wont ever again.

"Are you okay, Katniss?" Finnick asks. His eyebrows are furrowed and there's a glint of something dark in his sight that I recognise, having seen it on myself. The thing with darkness, however, is that it can take many forms because there are many forms of evil. So, to me, that glint in his eyes is another enigma that makes up Finnick Odair. If it were something light, it would be much easier; there is only one form of light, and in the form is many facets. Purity is that form.

Feeling groggy and unamused, I look away from Finnick, positive that if I keep staring I will cave and blurt out everything I feel; the disgust, the worry, the pain, the hatred. I never knew I could feel so much hatred but _God,_ it ebbs through me like a tidal wave of undying blackness. It'll absorb me, soon enough, and I will despise everything. Maybe even Prim.

No, scratch that. Never Prim.

Taking a step back from Finnick, I press my fingers into my eyes until I go dizzy and the world turns black and reply, "Yes, Finnick. I'm fine."

He gently pries my hands from my face, still frowning. "Right," he says, "like you were 'fine' yesterday morning when you left to see Mr. Puckheart?"

For a moment, my heart stops. I stare up at him with a stale taste lingering in the back of my dry throat and, for just a second, contemplate telling him; I can feel my chest, which I have tried so hard to empty out, growing thicker and fuller with horrid, unchecked emotions. Then I shake myself off and violently tug myself from him, glaring. "No," I say, "not like that! I'm _fine, _for Gods' sake!"

"Right. You're fine," Finnick agrees. Then suddenly, he smiles so dazzlingly at me that a bout of confusion strikes me into a daze - so that's when he moves. Finnick, with the cunning of a serpent, quickly latches a strong arm around my waist, bends me backwards and sweeps me off my feet. Although I narrow my eyes at him as he holds me there, grinning, I find it hard to stay mad. Mostly because the touch makes my skin crawl.

I push at his chest to no avail. "Let go of me," I say fiercely.

He laughs and suspends me lower. "Want to tell me what's wrong now, Katniss?"

"Finnick, seriously!" My voice doesn't sound like my own. Instead of sounding indifferent and distant, I sound weak and vulnerable. "Please let go of me."

There are spiders - mutt spiders; bigger, stronger, more human. Spiders crawling all over my skin, into my mouth, my lungs, my head. God, there's so much _noise._ How is it possible that I can rub my skin raw the previous day and want to do it all over again the next? It's like the dirt is infallible - as if it's eternal. Or maybe I'm the dirt. A bloody, used rag that will only get used again and again and again and-

"Katniss," Finnick says softly. He's standing about two feet away from me now. When did that happen? "Katniss, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you..."

I notice I'm crying when he wipes a tear from my cheek, so I slap his hand away. Fury suddenly slashes through me and I laugh bitterly, rapidly shaking my head and condemning my soul for eternity. _Damn tears. You do not cry. You don't deserve to. If you cry, it's like you regret saving Prim by doing... what you do. Don't cry. Only babies cry. _"I'm fine," I say again. "Stop mothering me, Finnick."

Finnick suddenly looks angry, too. "Mothering you? Katniss, yesterday you had sex with damn pervert who only ensured your survival in the Games so he could fuck you when it was all over with!" Something stings me in the chest - hard - and I stumble back, as if slapped. "If I'm mothering you it's only because _I know what you're going through._ I went through it too, remember? I remember. I'm still going through it."

"I know, Finnick but -"

"No, there are no buts," he says. "We're going through the same thing and we've got to be there for each other. If we're not, who knows what will happen?!" A pause, a heavy breath, and then: "You remember Annie?"

I nod slowly, recoiled into myself. Of course I remember Annie. She was the one he gave his virginity to - and then she became a tribute. Go figure.

"Well, she killed herself, Katniss. She couldn't deal with the very _thought _of selling herself and having the mental torture of constantly wondering if her family were safe that she killed herself. Spared Snow the satisfaction." Finnick's whole body is weighed down. His eyes are now engulfed by that darkness and I realise what it is - it's sadness and anger and every bad feeling the darkness brings. "Today is the anniversary of her death. I wasn't allowed to leave the Capitol to be with her family - who, by the way, still don't know the reason she killed herself. _Killed herself..._" He shakes his head and turns from me, now even stiffer than before. "They still think they were to blame and I can't tell them they aren't or else..."

"Or else you're family will die," I finish softly. "God, Finnick, I'm so sorry."

Snow has stooped to a new low. Not only does he _sell _people but he inadvertently kills them, too. He controls people's lives like a puppeteer, sitting all high and mighty on his throne while the little people do all the fighting and whole districts starve. I know no man that deserves to die as much as he does. And he will die.

Let's call it comeuppance for Annie's death, shall we?

Finnick only shrugs and looks back to me. There is no longer any sadness in his eyes - there is anger. Pure, blindingly hot anger which courses through him. Yet it doesn't control him. "It's not your fault," he says casually. "It's his. Snows. And he'll pay for it some day, believe me."

I do. _Too much._ "Well, I'll be the one to kill him," I promise, smirking slightly. "I swore it to myself."

With a chuckle, Finnick bends down again and meets my eyes. For a moment, I understand why the Captitol is head-over-heels for him. He's so suave. "You'll have to fight me for it," he says quietly. He's so close to me again - does he like invading my personal space or something? "And if you do win by _some_ sort of freaky miracle, then the Capitol will have you executed anyway."

Strangely, I laugh. It feels so odd that I'm stricken with surprise for a second. _How long has it been since I've truly laughed? _"Why would they do that?" I ask. I grin up at him. "They love me."

"Yes, well they love me more." Finnick shoots me a mischievous grin that I have no problem in returning. And again, I blanch. _What the hell?! _"Men and women all want me!"

Something inside me stings at the fact Finnick can joke about this so smoothly - but I guess he's done it or years. It's emptied him - made him numb. You learn to accept bad things if they happen to you enough. "I bet it has something to do with those sea-green eyes of yours."

"Sea-green eyes, huh?" Finnick stares hard at me, grinning. "Probably. Everyone just stares at them. Even you."

"What? No."

Finnick laughs and shakes his head, stepping closer. His sweet bbreath brushes over my face. "Really, Katniss?" he asks. "Are you sure? Because when we were-" his grin grows, "'making love' the other night, they were all you were looking at. And trust me, there's _a lot_ to look at."

Unsurprisingly, I hot blush tints my cheeks slightly as I glare at him. And I take a step back. "I didn't think we were bringing that up again," I tell him, still staring at him with narrowed eyes and pink cheeks.

A shrug. A wink. A laugh. "Why not? I think it was a rather memorable night."

"Memories which will haunt my nightmares," I agree. "Totally."

Finnick chuckles again and walks over to his dresser, where he takes a sugar cube from the glass bowl. He glances back at me. "Sugar cube?"

Yet another enigma which makes up Finnick Odair. The sugar cubes. I wonder how he got into that - or, moreover, why? "No, thank you," I say. "I like my teeth."

He only shrugs. "Your loss," he says, and tosses the cube into his mouth. I hear it crunch against his teeth. "How are you anyway, girl on fire?"

"I'm certainly not on fire, that's for sure," I say. He laughs. "I'm fine, though."

His eyes stare hard at me, twinkling. They're so deep and so beautiful that I momentarily blanch, then hit myself inwardly. _I can't stop staring at them, he's right. Stupid sea-green eyes. _"Liar," he states, grinning. Then it drops abruptly. "You're a good liar, girl on fire but not when talking to me. I know what you're going through, remember? I've been there."

That's right. I can't lie to a liar. I can't lie to Finnick - not about this, anyway. I can lie to myself as much as I want and tell myself that I'm okay - but that doesn't make it true. It never will. "I'm..."

"You don't have to say anything, Katniss," he says. His voice is suddenly so soft and understanding that I realise it: Finnick. I realise Finnick is not one person but several, all living and breathing inside of him. His anger, his laughter, his wisdom, his strength, his softness, his understanding, his sympathy. They are all him. All of his parts. "I know how you feel, already."

I can feel the tears starting to rip at my eyes again and turn away from him, closing my eyes. My heart feels heavy. "I feel like dirt, Finnick," I tell him, ashamed. "Everyday I rub myself raw in the shower in the hopes I'll, for once, feel clean. But I don't. I never do. I don't know what to do and I'm constantly angry, like I could rip the head off anyone who so much as speaks to me."

I can feel his eyes burning into my back, ripping through my skin and tearing at my defenses; but I suppose I weakened those defenses the second I walked up here to see him. I waged war, knowing what would happen. And now I'm vulnerable.

Finnick doesn't touch me. He doesn't directly reply to any of what I just said. Instead, he gives me secrets. _His _secrets. "I trained excessively when I found out," Finnick says. "I'd pass out sometimes because I'd push my body so hard. I was often dehydrated and if I wasn't at the gym, I was at the hospital or at an appointment or-" he scoffs, "-sleeping. " He pauses. "Someone else I knew went through a phase of scratching their skin subconsciously. Their arms are pretty badly scarred now. Thing is, they didn't know they were doing it. They'd just look down in pain all of a sudden and their arms would be red or bleeding - and they did it in their sleep, too. I used to stay with them a lot to stop them from doing it."

My mouth goes a little dry and I rub my head in exhaustion. Snow is destroying so many lives and he doesn't even care. In fact, he couldn't care less. He's physically incapable of giving a _shit_ about anyone or anything, so long as his self-righteous, pompous and vile self sits on that high horse of his. "That's awful," I say. I still don't face him. "Are they... scarred?"

"Yes. Badly." Finnick lets a small silence settle over him and I'm reminded about how much I hate them - his brooding quiet spots, I mean. "I should probably get changed now. I've got an appointment at four and I want to go to the gym before hand."

Turning to face him, I smile weakly. "Just don't kill yourself," I say.

He laughs. His eyes lights up.

I wonder why it was funny.

"No promises," he teases. "So long as you don't drown."

When I laugh, I understand why it's funny, making fun of someone's personal habits in which they deal with bad news and bad lives - it's the only thing you can do. You can only joke and laugh about it to make things seem more tolerable - or else you'll suffocate in the darkness. "I'll be sure not to let the shower drown me," I agree, grinning. "I'll see you, Finnick."

"Right." He's fumbling around with something. "See you..."

Just as I'm leaving, heading up towards the lift with an unpleasant churning building in my gut, I hear Finnick call my name and turn to see him standing at his bedroom door. "Finnick?" I ask in amusement. He's half naked. "I'm not getting back in your bed."

Finnick laughs. "Never say never," he says. "No, I just wanted to give you this. You'll need it."

And then he throws it at me. The bag. It's translucent and white, and as I inspect it with curious fingers I go to glance up at Finnick - but he's gone. So I open it anyway.

There, sitting on a bed of sugar cubes, is a phone number. The phone number to his house in District four.

I only smile.

* * *

**Thank you everyone for the reviews! They always make me smile (and the guilt of not having updated when I know you wonderful people are reading makes me update quicker, so good for you!) and the compliments are really too much - not that I'm complaining XD  
Also, thanks to MaraLuvsGuns for the input! I had definitely planned for a water scene :P**


	7. The Hungry Seven

**This is going to sound like the most pathetic excuse in the world but I _swear to God_ I am telling the truth. So, here it is: this chapter was longer (it mentioned finishing and the banquets and parties, more emotions, and everything!) but my cat freaking stood on my laptop when I was in the toilet and _deleted all of it._ I was gutted. And pissed.**

**So, I'm really sorry. There's less detail now and it's bloody shorter but I can't help it; having a whole chapter deleted when you spent a whole day writing it and checking it over because you felt guilty about your lack of updates, only to have you _cat _of all things delete it, makes you pretty dead. In fact, I had absolutely no motivation to re-write this. BUT I DID. For you guys! :)**

**So, sorry again. Teaches me to save before going to the bathroom.**

* * *

I don't know what to make of Haymitch on the ride back to District 12. Whilst he drinks a lot normally, today he has decided that the more, the merrier. And he is more inebriated than I have ever seen him.

With his face buried in his pillows, his arms and legs are strewn all over the mattress of the bed, whilst the duvet lies half-off, half-on the floor. Two empty whiskey bottles and an empty vodka bottle litter the bedside table and the light is off. A crystal glass hangs limply in one hand, with a few droplets of golden alcohol left and a small lump of ice tucked in one corner.

"Haymitch?" I ask, frowning. I inwardly debate turning the light on for a moment, then decide against it. It'd probably physically hurt him. "Are you okay?"

A heavy wave of the hand. A incoherent grunt and groan.

God, this is bad. He's barely conscious. Is he dying? What the hell do I do? "Haymitch?" Well, of course he's not dying. It's a miracle he's not, though.

Haymitch forces out a heavy breath then grunts again, angrily this time.

I get the message. "I'll come check on you in a few hours," I mutter, annoyed at his carelessness, his selfishness, and the fact he's so unperturbed, then head back to my room for sleep and for thought; these days, I think a lot.

I don't blame myself for thinking, either.

* * *

When I finally arrive in District 12 and settle down, I find it's somehow different than I remember, yet everything is still the same; the starvation, the dreary looks, the people, the noise, the air, the feel, the scent. It begs the question whether it really is the one who's changed, or whether I have. It's more likely the latter, unsurprisingly. I've been forced to change, of course. To grow up. To toughen up. To become empty. To become strong.

I guess that happens when you have to kill kids - and then are forced to give up your body and your pride, too, whilst knowing that your family's lives are on the line. You mature quickly when that happens. For me, it's not a good thing. I was already forced to grow up when my dad died and effectively, in turn, so did my mother. For a while. So, this extra boost of maturity has made me into... into some sort of fun-destroyer.

My mind skips to Finnick all of a sudden and it makes me frown. Why the hell would I be thinking of him right now? Do I destroy his fun or...? No. I don't. Finnick makes me laugh and blush and act like a teenage girl again - I find it hard to decipher whether this is a good or a bad thing - and I enjoy myself more when I'm around him. So, maybe that means I'm not a Grinch. Maybe that means Finnick makes me younger; he transforms me, briefly, from the fun-destroyer I am. Which is absurd, because I barely know him. Yet...

I shake all my thoughts from my head, glancing at the bag Finnick gave me for a moment. Then I decide against calling him. Why would I need to anyway? For now, I'm going to hunt. With Gale.

_Gale._

What would he think if he knew about me? If he knew that I will be forced for years to come, perhaps for the rest of my life, to give my body to strange Capitol men and play the part of the mistress who just _loves_ and _adores_ and _lusts_ after every single man she will see who places her in a bed? He wouldn't. He'd probably turn from me in disgust after lecturing me, even if he knew the cause. _I can defend myself, Catnip,_ he'd say. _You can't let them control you. You can't let them... use you like that. How could you stand it, Katniss? Can you look at yourself the same anymore? _

The answer is no, I cant - but I can't let myself say that aloud. I can't admit it to myself aloud, not yet, because that will make it solid - it will make it real. So, Gale can't know. He won't understand - none of them will. They'll all judge me and lecture me and never look at me the same again, like I can't look at myself in the mirror without wanting to shower, or go even ten minutes without thinking about the dirt of my skin or Mr. Puckheart or Mr. Flugaal, or the many other men and even maybe women I'll have to sleep with in order to keep my family alive.

I'll probably be insane by the time I'm thirty.

And Peeta! Oh, God, Peeta. With everything going on, I've barely... I mean, I can't... He died. He died and all I can think of is my damn self-respect and self-hatred! Damn it, Katniss. This is why you have so much hate, right now. Think of Peeta. He died for _you. _He allowed you to win. He is a voice to be proud of and one of the nicest people you have ever met. _Think. Of. Him._

The boy with the bread. The boy who saved me.

With Peeta and the anticipation of hunting with Gale fresh in my mind, I allow myself to smile hollowly and shrug on my father's hunting jacket. Then, I slam the door of my house in Victor's Village and set off eagerly in a nice, steady jog. As I do so, I look around my home, the place I know so well, and wonder when I started to find it empty - foreign - because that's what it feels now.

Can something you feel like you don't truly know anymore be called 'home?' I'm not so sure. So where do I belong? Do I belong with Primrose and my mother, both of whom I hugged so hard and for so long that my arms clicked? Do I belong with Gale, who makes me smile and breathe and who I was eventually supposed to settle down with but who also has a dark side that I know could probably resent me in a heartbeat, if I did the right wrong thing? Do I belong in the forest where I feel free? Do I belong in the Capitol, where I have done deeds I hate myself for? Do I belong with Haymitch, who shares the same sort of understanding as me but who is constantly drunk off his mind? Or do I belong with Finnick, who makes me laugh and joke and live and feel warm inside?

Truth be told, I don't know. I feel lost. And hopeless. And stupid; since when did Finnick make me feel 'warm inside?' I barely know the man.

_Get a grip, Katniss. You sound pathetically desperate._

When I reach the old fence, I do the usual routine of checking for the electrical hum of the wire which, as usual, isn't there. Then I duck in between two particularly loose wires and sprint the rest of the way to mine and Gale's meeting point, collecting my bow and quiver on the way.

I smile when I see Gale's already there.

"Gale!" I call, jogging towards him. My smile grows steadily into a wide grin which instantly buries into his shoulder when he tugs me towards him, holding me extremely tightly and practically suffocating me and crushing my bones. I'm taken so off guard for a second that I laugh - it's muffed by his shirt - and then I hug him back. My smile is constant and it only widens as I listen to the tinkering of birds and the rush of the wind through the trees, and feel a contentment like no other settle in my chest. We stand like this for while, just absorbed in each other's arms and breathing in their being.

I realise that I probably belong here in the woods with Gale, who keeps me upbeat and strong and safe. And he makes me laugh.

"Hey, Catnip," he says, once we've pulled apart. He's grinning, too. "Long time, no see."

I smile again. Softly, this time - but God does it feel nice to smile. "Too right, a long time," I say; and then, because I've turned into a depressing, fun-destroying killer since the Games, I add, "A long time is better than never at all, though, as I thought before..."

_Before I killed people, let Peeta and Rue die on my watch, and won the Hunger Games?_

Gale ignores me, which I'm slightly glad for. Instead he just smiles again and rearranges his bow on his back, then we head off, silently, to hunt.

It feels like a year since I've been out here, out in this home I call the forest, and hunting for game for my family - well, Gale's family, now. Even though I have more money than I can count, Gale is too proud to accept any of it and chooses instead to work in the dark, dangerous mines he hates. So, as a compromise, we agreed that I could hand on any game I hunt to Gale's family when he is unable because of his job. And that was okay with me.

As we walk, we don't talk about the Games or Gale's jobs or anything like it, really. We just _talk_. About nothing. Our relationship has molded - my fake-romance with Peeta apparently hurt Gale in ways I didn't even know of - since the Games; I can't tell him everything and know that he'll tell me his secrets, too, in return. We shun the Capitol still but, not really, because that would remind us of the Hunger Games and it hurts us both to think of them - of what I did, of Rue, of Peeta, of...

Being in this forest where I spent a lot of my childhood, reminds me of times when I had a mother and a father and a sister who knew nothing but her love for her family and the hunger she constantly felt. It makes me feel a little sick, in all honesty, remembering how - even though life was tough and work was constant and we were always fighting for our lives - that was the happiest time of my life. And now is the worst.

I shake off all thought, too depressed to think of happy times and too happily involved in hunting to think of depressing times, and steadily aim my bow at a squirrel. I breathe in methodically and roll out my shoulders; then, with narrowed eyes and a focused gaze, I fire. There's no sound as the arrow penetrates the squirrel's eye except a very brief, small squeak and a swift _thunk_.

For a second, the squirrel isn't just food. It's a life. A life I just took like all the lives I took in the Hunger Games. And then, I regret it. More than I want to admit.

_It's just a squirrel,_ I tell myself. _It's food for Gale's family._

It's not like the Hunger Games. It's nothing like it; because this time, I killed something that wont - really - be missed; something that doesn't really have a thought-process; something that will help keep Gale's family alive.

So, it's a good thing, right?

When Gale and I meet up again, we do a little bit of fishing for a while but come up short, so instead we eat our breakfast in on-again-off-again silence. Then, we pack our game in our bag, making note of it as we go.

"We've got quite a lot," I say, looking down at the seven rabbits, four squirrels, variation of berries and a beaver. The rabbits were caught on the snares Gale made, which we checked soon after eating.

Gale nods and hoists _my_ game bag up onto his shoulder. I don't say anything because why should I? Nevertheless, it kind of irks me. I _did_ survive the Hunger Games, after all. Carrying a bag is nothing to be.

Then again, he's just being chivalrous.

"We should go to the Hob now," he says. I agree immediately and we walk slowly through the forest, taking our time to look around and bathe in each other's presence, because it's been so long since we've seen each other and I still can't fully comprehend that he really is with me. Yet, he is. And I am here. And I am alive.

When we reach the old fence, I turn to Gale and go to speak, then shut my mouth. Then, I say, "I... don't think I should go to the Hob with you. Prim and my mother don't know where I am and-"

What happens next is so sudden and so unexpected that I freeze for a moment, then find myself adjusting to it. I let my fingers bunch together on Gale's chest and find myself, almost, on my tip-toes because he is so tall. I am filled with so many confusing and abrupt emotions that I don't know what to make of it all.

Because Gale is kissing me.

He pulls away as quickly as he started it and stares down hard at me with an unreadable expression. His hands are still cupping my neck. Then, Gale retracts completely and says, "I had to do that. At least once."

And then he's gone.

As I watch him jog the rest of the way to District 12, split from him not only by the fence but by my life now and what I've done, I find my index finger tracing my bottom lip in puzzlement; despite knowing Gale's lips like the back of my hand, having seen him frown and laugh and talk since I was young, I had no idea they'd be so warm. And though his hands are strong and nimble enough to tie even the most intricate of snares, I didn't expect them to be able to entrap me so quickly, so completely. Yet what do I know? I'm a prostitute by force who has killed three innocent people and who also just kissed her best friend back with such contrasting emotions bashing around inside of her, that her thoughts have gone still.

Damn you, Gale Hawthorne.

* * *

**There's some more Finnick in the next chapter! :P**


	8. The Hunger Eight

**More Finnick this chapter! Sorry he wasn't in the last one, though you gotta understand he can't be in every one :)  
Also, I have to vent. I CANNOT WAIT UNTIL NOVEMBER FOR CATCHING FIRE. Finnick is my favourite character in the books (which I've read, now, like 100000000 times) and I love Sam Claflin as a person (and he's sexy, admit it), so I think he'll do a great job. He looks quite a bit like how I pictured Finnick (with all the spray tan and such on) and, even though it's not 100% like I pictured, he's perfect for the role. A lot of people want a BEEFY Finnick but he's not beefy, is he? He's lean - muscled but not ripped (some people see him as a white Mr. T or something!). It's silly what some people want. Anyway, no-one's as hot as Finnick so the actor playing him could never be 100%; but Sam is pretty damn close.**

**Sorry. I'm just really ****really ****really ****really ****really ****really ****really ****really excited. I can't wait until November; I think Catching Fire was my favourite book, though I know some people thought it was the worst - and others think the same of Mockingjay. I don't know. I'm just SO EXCITED I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.**

******Gah, sorry. Here's the chapter. For some reason, it was kind of difficult to write. I'm not sure if I overstated her reaction here what with Rue and Peeta's deaths, ********the resentment she feels is aimed at her**, and her prostitution ******lingering over her.** I'm don't know. Is it out of character? I'd love your feedback!

* * *

When I wake up in the morning, it's not out of choice. No, I wake up bombarded by my Prep team who are all eager to get started - which is silly, really, considering I'm not due a makeover for a while yet. After all, District 11 is first on the Victory Tour - and, surely, they can remake me on the train.

Yet, they can't because they want to do it _now._

Whist I have already been waxed, plucked and scrubbed several times on my return to District 12, due to the banquets and the parties and the so-called celebrations which just make me feel even worse about myself and my experience, I am to be fussed over _again_ to make sure I am made up to perfection so Cinna can work his magic on me.

In some ways, I wish he didn't have to. I hate this stupid Victory Tour and I hate having to act like I am _proud. _I am anything but that. I am ashamed. This Victory Tour is just President Snow's smug way of prolonging the memory of our defeat in the rebellion; of prolonging the misery and the pain and the death; of prolonging the hopelessness; of prolonging the punishment - the Hunger Games.

When I meet with Cinna after being harassed by my team and quizzed on whether, maybe, I _would_ like my skin tinted or if, perhaps, I _would _like pink hair or golden tattoos, he only smiles without much emotion and tells me he wants my hair up in its usual braid.

"So, District 11," he starts, gently running a brush through my hair.

I don't reply. We both know where he's going with this and it's not something I want to discuss - but maybe Cinna thinks it will be good for me. Healthy. I do not. I think it will bring up horrid nightmares and emotions and raw, pulsing pain that I am not ready to acknowledge. Not again. Not ever. The Hunger Games will not destroy me more than they already have - no, wait. _They_ haven't. President Snow has.

"Katniss," Cinna says. He turns me to face him, planting two, firm hands on my shoulders. "It'll be okay."

I nod, a little stiffly. "Right," I say. "I'll be fine."

And I will. I hope. Yet somehow, even though I know Rue's family does not hate me or anything even remotely like it, I am nervous beyond belief. Maybe because I am afraid that seeing them, of being reminded of how I felt when I saw Rue and how she reminded of Prim, and how I failed to protect her and, for that, she died.

The morning is suddenly dark.

I realise suddenly that I'm worried. I'm worried about giving a speech and meeting Rue's father in the eye, only to dissolve into tears and look like a weak, pathetic little girl. And the Districts will resent me even more, because _I killed their kids and I took the victory when really, I am weak. So, do I really deserve to live above them? _The answer is as much a 'no' as it is a 'yes'; if we wipe clean everyone's slate, then it is obvious we are all the same. No one is valued above another. Yet bit by bit, person by person, people are slowly being killed off in a relentless test of skill, personality and materialism.

Disgusting.

When I'm finally dressed and in District 11, I am greeted by the Mayor and there are few formalities which are adjourned before I step onto the stage. There is no clapping. It is silent. I remember the words of encouragement Cinna has been spoon-feeding me since we left Twelve with no feeling of relief. Instead, my knees feel week and my dress feels disgusting and mockingly expensive in this District; Eleven is better off than Twelve, financially - but not by much.

The crowd stares up at me with mixed emotion which stirs something deep in my stomach because, even though the Mayor is making a short introductory speech, they are not even looking at him. Their eyes are fixed purely on me and, for a moment, I see it in their expressions; the hate; the resentment; the sadness. Then, I realise, it is not aimed at me. In fact, I can see their sympathy for me shining through all of it. And yet, I feel unwanted; I feel despised; I feel unclean, as if I am trespassing; and I feel unbelievably forlorn.

"Now, I give you the winner of the 74th Hunger Games and a friend of our Rue, Katniss Everdeen!"

My name sounds odd in this District - even odder as it rolls off the Mayor's tongue. And I don't know why. All I know is the fidgeting of something unpleasant inside of me and the stoic eyes of Haymitch as they burn into me, scanning me, along with the rest of the crowd. I wonder if I look as dragged down as my emotions are making me feel.

_She didn't deserve to die. She was too young to die._..

Slowly, strongly, regretfully, I begin. And I hear my words ricochet off the tension in the brittle air - so brittle I could crunch it, grind it, feel it break between my teeth.

"I want to give thanks to the tributes of District Eleven," I say. I only pause briefly. "I only ever spoke to Thresh one time - just long enough for him to spare my life. I didn't know him but I always respected him. For his power; for his refusal to play the Games on anyone's terms but his own. The Careers wanted him to team up with them from the beginning but he wouldn't do it. I respected him for that." My eyes scan the crowd, though I plead them not to, with the strings of my heart plucking in discomfort and the knot in my stomach thumping in despair. That despair etches into my voice as I continue my speech, lost but not alone. "But I feel as if I did know Rue," I continue, "and she'll always be with me." There's a heavy silence again. I can feel it, slicing through me, zapping every inch of my body with a hurt that thunders through my very core and shakes the world around me. My vision almost blurs as I continue in a quieter, even slower voice - a voice which sounds lost - and meet her a pair of eyes so very similar to hers - to Rues. "Everything beautiful brings her to mind. I see her in the yellow flowers that grow in the Meadow by my house. I see her in the Mockingjays that sing in the trees. But most of all, I see her in my sister, Prim." I can feel my eyes burning. It is hard to decide if they are burning in sadness or under his stare - under the eyes of Rue's father - but I hold his gaze because I must; because I respect him; because I miss her; because of Rue. "And I would give anything to bring her back to you. Thank you for your children. And thank you all for the bread."

Time had slowed as I spoke but now, it speeds up impossibly, whizzing around me as the well-wishes are said and the respects are given and I am thrust into the building behind me to feast on food which Rue will never taste; which Thresh will never touch; and am riddled with a irrevocable guilt as I eat. The feast, too, rushes past me in a incoherent blur and then I am shown back to the train as Effie titters on about timing and schedule and showers and food and I shuffle numbly to the back room, blanking out anyone and everyone: Cinna, Haymitch, Effie. Everyone. Then I sit down, stiffly, on my bed. And I stare into space.

_Rue._ Her name echoes through the emptiness in my head like a poison which will never leave, a sadness which will never disappear, a longing which will only grow. _Rue._ She was twelve whilst she was in the Games. I wonder when she'd turn thirteen? A month? A day? A year? A week? Who knows? Not me - because in the Games, it was our lives on the line, not our birthday meals or social intelligence. Our lives. And hers was ripped from her by the tip of a spear and a boy named Marvel. _Rue._

Suddenly, I am crying. Soul-tugging, bitter, throat-scratching cries which make me want to rip out my heart and offer it to Rue's family as dreadful compensation. _I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so, undeniably sorry._ How much have I cried over the past month or so? Too much. Far too much. I hate crying! I hate looking weak. I hate President Snow. I hate Le'Bron Puckheart. I hate the Capitol. I hate the Hunger Games.

My tears are salty and sour with dour emotions, matching the dismal weather I can hear raging on outside. Though I rub them furiously from my face, hating the hitches in my breath and the pathetic sobs which crack from my made-up lips, I continue to cry harder than before and smack the covers, over and over and over, condemning the stupid Capitol and thinking of Rue and her innocence and her smile; and Peeta, with his voice and his kindness and his understanding; and Prim, who reminds me so much of Rue and some of Peeta, and how safe she is. It makes the ache worse. _I'm sorry. I'm sorry. __I'm so sorry_.

Death hurts. It hurts more than I can believe, even if I should be familiar with it now after the death of my father. And I'm not so willing to admit that I had been so wrong before, because you're never too young to die.

President Snow has proved as much.

With an angry shout and a swipe at my red eyes, I storm up from the bed and lock my door when someone knocks for me. My chest rumbles under my hysterical crying and I slam back against the door, gripping firmly at my hair and shaking my head, over and over. _Nightmares. So many nightmares._

Why did Rue die? Why am I still alive when I failed to protect the two people in that stupid arena who I cared unfathomably for, and who trusted me unconditionally? _I failed them. I failed them and their families. And I failed myself._

Suddenly, as I open my sore eyes with another harsh, painfully forceful rub at my face which makes my cheeks blaze red, I watch something flutter on the desk as my fan blows cool air into the anger-infused room. I settle immediately, no longer crying. Was I ever crying, or was it an illusion?

I touch my face. It's wet. So, I was crying.

I don't even bother asking myself if I'm insane.

When I pull myself, quickly, onto my feet and walk subconsciously to the table, I find myself staring down at an untouched bowel of sugar cubes and a piece of thin paper which is half-trapped underneath it. Paper which, on it, had Finnick's number.

Not a doubt or a worry runs through me - not even concern. I just pull the phone from the wall and dial in his number as I hold it, firmly, between my fingers. I sniffle slightly as I wait - and then, he answers.

"Finnick Odair," he answers, coolly. I can imagine he's smirking. "Now, why would you be calling so late?"

I don't smile or laugh or say hello for a moment; but I do, instead, feel the stress ooze from my body in a gentle pulse the second I hear his sensual voice. And then, all that is left is the bleakness and the memories, which haunt me as I speak. I don't even wonder why.

"Hello, Finnick," I say. "It's Katniss."

Finnick doesn't miss a beat. "So I thought," he says, chuckling. "And again, I repeat my earlier question: why are you calling so late?" I can hear a teasing yet seductive quality leaking into his words. "Do you miss me already, girl on fire? I didn't realise I was quite so addicting."

I don't know why his comment doesn't annoy me but it doesn't. I settle with the reasoning that Finnick is the only one who can truly understand me. "No, I'm just out of sugar cubes," I joke, though my voice is a little dull and lifeless and lacks the joking-spark. And, also, it doesn't help that I sound disgustingly surprised with myself as I continue, "I thought you could help me restock."

Finnick chuckles deeply and a cold breath slithers down my spine. I wonder how he can still seduce me when he isn't really with me. "Oh, Katniss," he says. "I always knew you fancied the _sweeter_ things in life."

Already aware of Finnick's nature to call himself sweet, sexy, spicy and any other word in the dictionary, I run my index finger around the rim of glass bowl of untouched sugar cubes. If only he knew I hadn't even had one. "I did," I start, "but then I overdosed on a really unhealthy batch of sugar and decided it wasn't the best thing to fancy. After all, the recommendations were _way _over the top."

On the other end of the line, Finnick's laugh sounds free and airy as he replies, "It obviously wasn't exaggerated if you loved it so much that you overdosed on it, girl on fire." It is obvious we are talking about him and the one night we shared - even though I had sworn off talking about it. "A little sweetness never hurt anybody."

I scoff. "It does if it wields a trident," I say, and Finnick laughs again. He sounds so normal and carefree - as if he didn't fight for his life, kill kids, and sell his body by force - that I find myself laughing with him, if a little stiffly and a little sadly.

Then the conversation whips into shape.

"Why did you really call me, girl on fire?" Finnick asks, almost softly. "Is it to do with District Eleven?"

Of course. _Of course!_ I don't know how I forgot that Finnick will have seen me here on the TV. Of course he knows I'm here - of course he watched me make a speech. Why wouldn't he? Why shouldn't he? In fact, it's not even his choice. None of us have choice under the rule of President Snow.

I don't curl up into haphazard defence as I expect myself to. Instead, I slump down on the bed, put my head in my hand, and mutter, "It's Rue."

There's a silence on the end of the line. Then, "Rue? Your ally, Rue? Twelve-year-old Rue?"

Pain punches me in the middle of the gut but I say, "Yes, Finnick. _Rue_."

"Do you know 'rue' means 'regret?'" Finnick asks. "Tragically suited, right?"

"Right," I say, meekly, "because I rue leaving her alone to set those fires; I rue not killing Marvel in time; I rue ever letting her out of my sight; I rue letting her die."

Finnick says nothing. Absolutely nothing. We sit there, in silence, for about three or four minutes in which I shuffle around anxiously until he says, "It wasn't your fault, Katniss. Nor is Peeta's death."

I don't fight against him because I'm tired, not because I believe in what he says. "Yeah?" I ask. My voice sounds foreign and my breath catches as I say, "Well, either way, I wont watch another person I love die. _I can't. _I refuse..."

Finnick shakes his head - I can tell. I also know that if he could, he'd grip tight onto my arms right now and bend down so I'd be staring aimlessly into his famous eyes, before he would reply, "And you wont. I wont. We will beat Snow, Katniss. We will kill him. You will do everything you can to keep your family alive in the meantime, whilst we're waiting for our window of action. I promise you."

Surprisingly (and sickeningly), a smile worms its way onto my lips and I stare hard at the floor. Finnick Odair really is a puzzle. "One minute you sound like an immortal sufferer, the next you sound like a warrior, and the next you sound like a typical man with the innuendos and the flirting..." Complex. That's what he is. Complex. "You're something else, Finnick."

Finnick laughs briefly, then says, "You know me, girl on fire. A man with nothing left to lose."

My lips go cold. "That's not true, Finnick," I say, suddenly concerned. "You have your family."

"Who I will try endlessly to keep," he agrees. "Yes."

And then we're done. We stop talking about what makes us sad and what concerns us because _that's not what we_ _do. _Not for long, anyway. We may have times of angst and sadness and seriousness but, otherwise, we are friendly and fun and humorous - because that is how we deal with bad things, bad lives, bad times and memories. With laughter.

"I've got to go, Finnick," I say, glancing in irritation to the door which Effie is knocking loudly on, tittering about me 'needing my beauty sleep!' "I need to..."

"Get your beauty sleep?" he asks. His words are framed by a deep chuckle. "So I heard."

I try hard not to blush because he's obviously mocking me. The urge becomes harder to suppress when he speaks again.

"You'll be at District Four before you know it," he says. "I'll be at the feast there so I'll so you then. In the meantime, try not to miss me too much." I almost catch the flash of his wide, seductive smirk down the phone line. "And I'll give you some advice: if you need something sweet and sugary to overdose on again, better me than the sugar cubes. They're hell on your teeth whereas I'm heaven on your-"

"_Finnick!_" I almost blurt out the word as a cry. I really am blushing now. "Stop!"

Finnick laughs loudly, freely and happily. I feel the final anxiety loosen in my chest, along with the fear and the sadness and the pain. _For now._ "Oh, girl on fire. I've never been asked to stop before."

"Good-bye, Finnick," I say blandly, furrowing my eyebrows. Really, though, I'm pushing back a smile; Finnick Odair may be an arrogant, flirtatious idiot with a violent streak and a complex personality - but he's also the only person that truly understands me. Although, maybe Haymitch does, too. Yet something about Finnick makes the world drop away - and I bet it's exactly what he is, exactly what I just mentioned, that does it; because all of it is _Finnick_, through and through. "I'll see you."

Finnick's laughing again. "Good-bye, girl on fire. And eat the sugar I gave you; it helps. Trust me."

As he says it, shock and fear suddenly stab through me as I realise that I do - that I really, truly do trust Finnick Odair. More than I should. More than I thought possible, what with how long I've known him and how little I've spoken to him and how hard it is for me, ever, to trust - because I am a genius of sadness and we people do not trust easily.

"Bye, Finnick," I say, filled with the breathlessness of fear and worry. "See you soon."

Finnick calls out to me down the phone, puzzled by my sudden change but I hang up on him, suddenly. Then I pick up the bowl of sugar and examine a cube between two fingers, completely at the mercy of my subconscious.

And I plop it into my mouth.

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**I wrote this chapter when it was really late (and I was really tired) so I have not yet proofread it. Sorry about any errors!**


	9. The Hungry Nine

As it happens, the Victory Tour passes as a blur. It is a jumble of fast, mundane and depressing meetings and feasts and speeches, which never cease to have me remembering. I get lost in my thought often and Effie, smiling her apology to whomever I am speaking to when I drift off, nudges me back into reality where I'm forced to face the facts. The cold, hard facts.

Yet, it still isn't over.

The only thing I take solace in is District 4; knowing that, soon, I wont be alone with Haymitch who, recently, is so drunk that he can barely breathe; knowing that I wont be alone with Effie, who is driving me insane with her schedules and her Capitol manner; knowing that I wont be alone with Cinna who, despite us being extremely close, is too busy with work and designing and Capitol arrangements to speak to me. Soon, though, I'l have Finnick and I wont be so bored, so cut-off. And I'll be able to feel kind of alive for a short amount of time. Maybe.

"Katniss!" Effie's milling outside my door, waiting for me to make an appearance. "Do hurry up, dear!"

I stiffen suddenly and my mind draws a blank, before I reply stoically, "I'll be right out, Effie."

She bristles again; her no-doubt over-the-top ballooned skirt scratches against the door and her long fingernails scrape against the handle, as if contemplating another attempt at trying (unsuccessfully) to open the door. Finally, she sighs. "I'll wait here," she says. Her voice is so dejected and ruffled that I almost feel guilty, messing up her perfect schedule like this but I'm not so sure I can face another District.

Sure, I'm at District 4. Finnick is here, in District Four, and waiting to see me and comfort and laugh with me. _Yet I have given the same speech, if a little different so it can correspond with each District, eight times already._ _Can I really do it four more? _At first, I think not; I am lying to them all, spewing insincere words which I did not even write myself to families who probably resent my very being because I won. I am alive. And sure, I do feel sorry for the people that died needlessly and the families who are mourning constantly for their loved one - but if they didn't die, I would have. And in doing so, I would have broken my promise to Prim.

_Prim. _The whole reason I entered the Hunger Games.

My thoughts suddenly spring around restlessly and, with a clenched palm, I sit down heavily on the bed. My reflection stares numbly back at me from the gold-encrusted mirror. _No. My speeches are not insincere. _I really do feel sorry for the families and I really do despise Capitol for killing those people - no, for making me, for making us all, kill those people and watch them die. Just because I am thankful I am alive does not mean I am not sorry they are dead. In fact, it hurts me - some deaths more than others.

With that in mind, I push myself back up and, only hesitating briefly, grab a sugar cube and plop it in my mouth; surprisingly, Finnick was right. They do help and they've grown on me a lot; it's like chewing gum or bubble gum, only sweeter and more solid. And I like that. It reminds me, indefinitely, of Finnick.

_Why is he always popping up in my_ _mind?_

When I unlock and open the door, Effie stares at me in a mixture of relief and horror and I feel almost bad; my dress - Cinna's design, of course - is a tad crumbled and Effie _hates_ this new sugar cube habit of mine. Still, with flushed cheeks and a wide, tight smile, she grips at my hand and pulls me into the main room where Haymitch is waiting. Drunk. Again.

"Are you ready, Haymitch?" Effie asks. She rummages around in her bag for a moment before glancing up at him and frowning. "Well?"

Haymitch snorts. "Sure, sweetheart," he replies, giving me a lingering look before turning back to her. "At your command."

The speech passes fairly quickly, if a little disconcertingly; from the moment I step up on to the stage and my eyes catch Finnick's, who's standing off to one side, I have to restrain myself from doing it again. Just seeing him, looking bright and happy and flirtatious and sea-fresh makes me brighten up completely and I have to fight back the urge to grin; which, if I had not managed to suppress it, would have been disastrous considering I was blessing the lives of the dead and apologising on their murderers' behalf and, even further, speaking of events which have been scalded into my brain.

The Hunger Games aren't something you just forget - they aren't something you simply move past. The memories they spawn are little parasites which live and breathe and weep within you, keeping altercations constant between themselves and my own cells. They are impossible to destroy.

When the after-buffet finally arrives (it seems like it takes an age, for some reason), I scan the room fleetingly for Finnick, trying to remain cool and collected as opposed to disappointed and curious, whilst also attempting to appear interested in whatever Effie is blabbing at me. It's a hard job, considering her topic of choice is that of what I am to do in the _next_ District, and I find myself drifting off into a world where no reality can leak through - that is, until his sweet, warm breath tumbles over my collarbone and down my shoulder. I know it's him - Finnick; after all, Effie's eyes are fixated behind me, as if startled, and no-one else would approach me from behind, nor so closely.

"Finnick," I say quietly, feeling my gut loosen a little. "You're here."

Beside me, Effie hastily excuses herself, looking flushed but in-the-know as she glances at me one last time.

"Why wouldn't I be, girl on fire?" he asks. There's that constant build of flirtation still lacing his voice, like a seductive poison. "I live here, don't I?"

With a grin, I turn around and meet his gaze. He is grinning, too. "I thought you lived with Poseidon and the fish below the land." My eyebrow raises subconsciously. "Or is that just a myth?"

Finnick snorts. "Of course it's a myth," he says. Suddenly, his chest puffs out and touches mine because he's so close - something runs through me, like liquid lightning - and he looks so cocky and proud and manly that the laugh that escapes me is more like an exhale. "I _am _Poseidon - how else could I be so skilled with a trident?"

I shrug. "Maybe it was you witty humour that killed your victims, as opposed to your trident."

His chest deflates, this time, yet he smirks charmingly. Then he leans in, ever closer, to me, so his lips are a millimeter from touching mine. Heat rushes through my veins as memories of _that night_ attack my defenses. "Or maybe it was my eyes," he says softly, sensually. "I bet it was my eyes, girl on fire. You mentioned something about them the last time I saw you. Don't you agree?"

It's as if I no longer have free-will; as if someone has switched something on inside of me that makes me want to close the distance between us yet stare, unwavering and unwilling, into his eyes. I choose the latter because it's less dangerous; and they truly are entrancing. Sparkling yet tender and the colour of a deep sea-green, Finnick's eyes are unfathomably beautiful. They contain gold flecks which seem to dance before me as his pupils, which look a little large, strike me down.

I feel breathless and irritated all in one; how can _eyes _hold such power over me?

Pulling my wrist from his touch, I take a step back and clear my throat. "Maybe so," I say. "Everyone loves them."

Finnick scrutinizes me, his eyes bold and unflinching as he does so in his alluring stare. "Everyone..." he repeats thoughtfully. Then he shakes his head and smirks. "Of course, '_everyone loves them',_ girl on fire. I'm Capitol's heartthrob."

"Or maybe you're Capitol's heart _attack_," I reply. "Some of those Capitol people who love you are _old._"

Another grin worms it's way onto his face. "Probably that, too," he agrees, joining my laughter with his own. God, it feels good to laugh! I love that Finnick can make me laugh and forget about the horrid truth of reality - until I remind myself, like I have just now done...

_Peeta and Rue are dead, I have killed people and I'm forced to sell my body, yet I am **laughing?!** What the hell is wrong with me?_

Again, I clear my throat - awkwardly, this time. Sadly. "So, how are you, Finnick?" I ask, trying to ignore the parasites screeching inside of me.

For some reason, this amuses him. "Hungry." He lowers his voice and steps closer again. Heat radiates off of his body - his lean and strong, way-too-close-for-comfort body. _I had sex with him. How does his closeness still make me uncomfortable?_ Nevertheless, I stay still, just waiting for his next remark about me 'Sating his unending hunger' - yet he says nothing of the sort. Finnick only stares at me in complete seriousness and sincerity then asks, "Do you want to grab something to eat then go outside?"

I feel myself nod - I say _feel_ because I am, for a second, so struck with his concern and obvious understanding that I want to hug him and clutch him until his bones collapse and he dies. Of course, I wouldn't ever do that. Finnick is the only proper friend I have now that I've been in and lived through the Games - not even Gale is a true friend any more! His perspective of me, of us, of the _world_ has changed and things are... taut between us, recently - especially after that kiss...

What am I going to face when I get home?

My stomach grumbles, reminding me that it's the now, in the present, that needs my attention. So, I shake myself from my thought and let Finnick fill up two plates with an abundance of food before dragging me off to a fogged glass double door. And we halt.

I look at him, puzzled. "Are you showing me the door?" I ask. "It's very... pretty."

Finnick laughs and shakes his head. "No, Katniss," he says. He rarely calls me Katniss and for a moment I'm so struck with the sound of it that it roots me into place - as if I'm so shocked at being called my own _name_. "If you haven't noticed, my hands are kind of full."

I glance at one hand to the other, to his face, back to his hands, and finally back to his face again. "Ah... right..." I'm blushing, of course. Why wouldn't I be blushing? "Sorry."

Again, he grins but he says nothing as I open the door. It closes with a soft click behind us.

In my life, I have never seen the ocean. I've seen rivers, pools, streams, puddles - water, yes, I've seen it. Never, though, have I seen an endless expense of water stretching out across the horizon, hurdling and curling gently over itself as the moon and the setting sun both, simultaneously, reflect in it's glassy form. Some stars break through the sky as the water, salty and sweet and of the lightest, crystal blue, whispers and washes in with the muffled chatter inside.

I feel myself smile and take a step forward; we're on the landing of a steep stairway made up of dark, blue tiles. My hands grip the railing as I stare at the ocean. "No wonder you love to swim so much," I say, almost breathlessly, and grin up at him. "It's amazing!"

Finnick nods. "Come on," he says. I follow him down the steps, which disappear, sunken, into the sand. Then I feel the urge to pull off my heels: one, because walking on sand is much harder than I thought and two, I want to feel the sand. So Finnick stops for me and watches, amused, as I pull off a pair of tall, plum heels and toss them back on the stairs and he remarks that, "If I wanted to be carried I should have just asked."

I look at him. "Like I want to get that close to you," I say, faking a disgusted cringe.

His eyes glitter. He puts the food down on a deck chair before marching over to me, confident and cocky, even when walking on the sand - but I have to remind myself that he's lived here all his life and that I haven't, so it's not my fault if I look clumsy and careless; I haven't had any practice. Suddenly, I find myself thinking about _what ifs?_ even though I know they're pointless. I know that thinking _what if I hadn't be born in District 12?_ is pointless; I know that thinking _what if Prim, mother, dad and I had lived here?_ is torturous; and I know that thinking _what if my life wasn't my life?_ is traitorous.

Yet I can't stop.

The questions, the hope-ignited and intrigued _what ifs?_ keep coming and poisoning me, making my skin itch and my heart thump at the thought of endless possibilities; Prim would have liked the ocean much more than she likes the woods. She'd love the tranquility here and, yet, the life; by night, it's peaceful, by day, it's alive - depending, of course, on where you go. She'd love that, though and I'm sure, too, she'd love eating. _Damn__, what a sickening thought. _Sure, I love the woods, I love hunting, I love Gale, I love the Hob and I love Greasy Sae - but that's all I love about District 12. District 4, though, isn't starving or run-down; it's bright, airy, fresh and free and completely and utterly beautiful. Finnick's here, the ocean's here, jobs and food are here! if Gale, Gale's family, Prim and my mother could move here it'd be like... like District 12 never stole a piece of me; like I never fell in love with the tall, broad trees or the taste of rain on my tongue; like I never fell in love with the sound of leaves crunching beneath my feet or the thrill of climbing high up into the canopy of the forest, so much so that I can see District 12 for all it is and miles afterwards; like I never fell in love with the life in the forest or the feeling of letting loose an arrow, as if we are one in the same.

_No. _I could never give up hunting or shooting or the woods - they've been apart of my life for too long and they're some of the only things my dad left with me... Knowledge and privacy.

"Katniss?" Finnick coaxes. He's gripping my forearms softly, staring down at me in worry. "Are you okay?"

I blink once. Just like that, I'm pulled violently from my mind and dropped back into reality. "I..." My fingers subconsciously rub the space between my eyes. "Yes, I'm fine. Sorry, I got caught up in thought."

He grins wickedly but he still looks concerned. "Thoughts too slow to keep up with you?" he asks.

I try out a smile for his sake and shake my head but, truly, I'm still left wondering about the _what ifs_. "I wish, Odair. Now, what were you saying?"

"Right..." Finnick clears his throat and grins. "As I was saying..."

Almost immediately, I regret asking because Finnick sways closer to me so almost every inch of his body is touching mine. The first thing I notice is the heat of his body; the second thing I notice is the stiffness of my own. He stoops his head down low so it's in level with mine and I see the muscles in his neck and shoulders contract slightly; then he moves in, closer and closer, until his lips briefly ghost over mine and he moves past my cheek to my ear. "I was saying, girl on fire," he starts, softly and seductively, "that you shouldn't play a game you know you're going to lose."

My throat tightens, dryer now than ever before. As I open my mouth to speak, I taste the salty ocean and the muskiness of the sand and I feel my hand start to twitch, as if it wants to reach out and grab him but I firmly tell myself _NO_! because this is Finnick Odair and Finnick is only my friend. And that's all I want him to be. No matter how seductive or sensual or attractive he is - Finnick Odair is my _friend._ That is all.

"I don't lose my own games, Finnick," I say. I lean back and look at him with an eyebrow raised. "I told you I didn't want to get that close to you - this is _you_ getting close to _me."__  
_

Finnick smirks and puts his hands up in surrender. "Maybe so," he agrees. "Yet you didn't refuse. And as I seem to recall we've been much closer than this."

A smirk. A laugh. A wink.

I blush lightly and look away out of nerves. We agreed we wouldn't mention that night, yet it seems every time we talk we _do._ "So... food?" I ask with a crackly voice.

Finick chuckles as he straightens up and we head back to our plates. Unsurprisingly, he'd grabbed a little bit of everything: duck, chicken, salmon, _caviar_, salad, sauces - all of which are somehow arranged into a very tasty, very posh and very _Capitol_ meal. Go figure.

As we eat, not really talking, I watch the roll of the waves in the ocean and run scoops of sand through my fingers, grinning constantly. It's so different here from where I live that you'd consider it a whole new world - which is funny, really, considering we're only eight Districts away. Yet, we don't have the ocean on our doorstep, the warm sand beneath our feet or the long, wooden docks and fishing boats. We have a vast expense of forest, a never-ending coal mine and the moans of people dying - perhaps on the street, in the shop, or in their homes. _We don't have **this.**_

And I hate it.

Finnick, once he's done, keeps watching me as I tear strips of duck from a bone. I try to ignore it and keep eating but eventually, his stare feels so intense that I _have_ to sigh and meet his eyes. They are a patchwork of different emotion. "Am I eating it wrong or something?" I ask in irritation.

That irritation fades the second he smiles at me. It looks kind of sad and concerned yet, still, kind of cocky. "If something's wrong, Katniss," he starts, "it's not how you're eating."

My mouth goes dry. My hand falters and lets the knife slip from between my fingers to hit the plate. I gaze at him, searching his expression for _something _that will tell me what he's thinking but he's enigmatic, so I fail. "How do you know something's wrong?"

He shakes his head, as if in pity. "It's obvious, Katniss," he says, grinning. Then he turns serious again. "What's wrong? Is it Rue?"

Even though I fee myself stiffen at the mention of her name, I shake my head slowly. "No," I mutter. "It's... this." I look around me, trying to indicate with my hands. "This place."

"My District?" he asks. On my nod, a sort of realisation settles over him but he asks again, "Why?"

I don't even hesitate in telling him. "Before... before the Hunger Games, before I as rich, my life in the District was hard; I had to feed my family by hunting and so did my friend, Gale. On more than one occasion I almost died from lack of food, just after my father died. He'd taught me how to hunt and identify lots of different plants but... back then, it was hard. I was young, my dad had just died, my little sister needed a mother who had, quite frankly, disappeared and I was forced into a bunch of things I shouldn't have even been considering back then."

Finnick stares at me in thought but I can tell by his expression that he knew about the troubles of District 12. Everyone does and everyone did - but they can't help us. By Capitol's orders, it's every District for themselves. "You're a Victor now, though," he says softly. "That's the past."

I smile sadly. "Yes, Finnick," I say. "And you know as well as I do that the past remains with you - that it alters your opinions and views and even, sometimes, the future."

He nods, understanding now. "And your District still feels like your past."

"Yeah. Gale is still suffering and he's too damn proud to accept _any_ money from me and everyone around me is still ill and suffering and living in houses which barely stand up. Yet I walk in, with my buckets of money and huge, Capitol-given house and rise above _all of it!_"

Finnick frowns and shakes his head. "Katniss, your people don't resent you for that," he says. "No one likes the Hunger Games. Everyone respects you for volunteering. They know what you went through because they saw it and they know that the Hunger Games has an aftermath which is disastrous - just look at Annie or Haymitch." Slowly, Finnick leans forward. His eyes jut around, scanning my face, and he smiles softly. "Even if they can't understand what it's like being in there and coming out alive, they can understand that it's not worth the riches. And they don't even know about the rest of it."

My breathing is kind of shallow and I can feel a pressure behind my eyes. "You mean the prostitution," I state.

Finnick doesn't back down. "Yes," he says. "That."

Licking my lips, I meet his eyes steadily. It's then that I realise, no matter what I do or say, Finnick will understand and he will be there for me - even if the time we've known each other has been fairly short. I think I'd trust him with my life. "Your District..." I fade off, closing my eyes and pressing at them with a swipe of my hand. "Your District just makes me think about what could have been."

There's a silence for a moment. I open my eyes and run my hand through the loose grains of sand, swallowing whatever's lodged in my throat. I listen to the sea lap against he rocks and the dock and hear, briefly, a loud, shattering laugh boom from inside the feast. Then it all stops as Finnick's large, warm hand closes over mine.

"Katniss," he starts, "if those things you're thinking of - if those things that might have been - really were, you might not have half the stuff you have today. We may never have met or been friends; Prim might be a whole different person entirely - actually, everyone you know might be a whole other person. For better or for worse. Things are as they are for some sort of reason and it's not a good idea to wish them differently. You might just regret it."

My eyes flicker up to him. I can feel a soft smile on my lips which broadens in time with his as I say, "You're not Poseidon. You're a philosopher."

Finnick chuckles. "'Finnick the Great!'" he proclaims. "Not quite up there with Aristotle."

I imagine a perfectly sculpted statue of Finnick, standing tall and (probably) nude in the Capitol, clutching his trident out in front of him as if it were a walking stick. The thought makes me smile; Finnick would probably laugh and laugh if it really did exist and try to destroy it. Maybe. Then again, he really does love himself. Maybe his ego would just inflate?

"No," I say. "Maybe not." Then his words, truly, fill me up and I find my eyes searching his face in wonder. "Do you really believe that?"

Finnick looks down at me and raises an eyebrow. "Believe what?"

"That everything is as it is for a reason," I say. "Do you really believe that?"

Suddenly, Finnick grins such a wolfish and wry thing that I have to laugh. "No," he says, coyly. "I just said it for support - to cheer you up."

"Well," I say, chuckling still, "it worked."

"I knew it would. I'm a philosopher, after all."

We laugh again.

"I tried those sugar cubes out, by the way."

Finnick smirks. "And how were they, girl on fire?" he asks. He leans in close and blows a breath of cool air over my face. "Was my _sugar_ better or worse than those cubes?"

I shrug and try to remain nonchalant but it's hard to, considering I'm grinning. "Oh, the cubes were better, definitely," I say. "There was more of them."

Finnick moves closer again. I feel my breath run short. "It's quality, Katniss," he lectures with a grin, "not quantity."

"You think so?" I ask. "Because sometimes, Finnick, I think it can be both."

* * *

**I'm really don't like this chapter; I think I have a small case of writer's block. Hopefully it'll go soon! I hope you enjoyed it nonetheless! :)**


	10. The Hungry Ten

**Just to let you know, in this story Katniss took part in the 73rd annual Hunger Games as opposed to the 74th. It's for the story's plot line. Happy reading! :)  
No Finnick in this one! Sorry! :(**

* * *

People say that the Capitol is your 'home away from home' should you ever go there. It's not. Disregard its fame and riches and you are left with a hollow, emotionless city that paints itself as a rainbow to distract from the fact that it is a cold, lonely, merciless place. No one _really_ has friends in the Capitol - it's all an act. They just have people who they call friends because they're there to make them look good and make their success bigger and well-known, whilst said 'friend' also passes around that,_ "Oh, the other day their __**friend**__ bought a new studio to interview whoever the hell they want!"_

It's one of the endless reasons I despise the Capitol. The plastic outline of it; the cruelty; the fake _everything._ It never knows when to stop - when is has crossed an invisible border.

It's also one of the reasons I hate the fact Tributes are forced to stay there before all of them - bar one - inevitably die in the arena. Then, that one living person is left with memories and seething hatred and the deaths of their friends - of people they barely knew - hanging from their conscience because you feel responsible; because you were in the arena with them; because you know, deep within you, that if they weren't killed by somebody else you would have killed them. So, even if you didn't pull the trigger, you feel like you killed them anyway.

Why should the Capitol be one of the last places you see before you die? Why would they do that to us - to the Tributes? Sure, it's an amazing place - beautiful and awe-inspiring, at first - but soon it makes you feel sick with the hatred you feel towards it and its mindless, clueless people who you can't help but feel sorry for because they have _no idea what they are in_.

"Katniss," Gale says, frowning at me. He slowly puts his apple down on the table. "Were you listening to me just then?"

I glance at him and go back to scrubbing the dirt off my boots, hovering them under the running tap water. "No, Gale," I reply impatiently. "No, I wasn't. I guess I'm just so caught up in the fact the _Reaping _is taking place _tomorrow_ and that I have to mentor some kid to their death." I slosh the boot into the basin of hot water then pause, suddenly, turning back to look at him a little. "Sorry. Do continue. Were you complaining about the stupid amount of money I have again, or was it different this time?"

Gale flexes his fingers. Surprisingly, even though I can tell he's annoyed, he doesn't get up or shout or even glare - he just looks at me. "I never complain about your money," he says, even though his jaw his clenched. "You deserve that. I just think that if the Capitol has so much money that they can make themselves be sick in order to eat more-" he shakes his head, disgusted- "and that they can give the Victors more money than they know what to do with _and_ a free house, then they can donate to the starving Districts."

I shrug. "You haven't met Snow," I say. An ice blade runs up the length of my spine at the memory. "I have."

And I certainly have. Face-to-face. He ordered me to give my body away and threatened my family. So, it's not so hard to think that he's _not_ the most charitable man alive - but what does he, does Capitol, do the Districts care? Most of them are _fine._ So long as they're well and happy and alive, they don't give a toss. It's only when it affects them that they care.

"And I hope the only time I get to meet him is when I run a blade through his chest," Gale says. "That's not the point."

I don't say anything and continue scrubbing my boot. A bit of dirt gets caught under my fingernail and I flick it away, absently. As my index fingers scout out dirt around the boot's rim, I go to ask Gale where Prim is - but his words beat mine.

"I was talking about us, you know," he says into the silence. "You and I, we're great together. We could do it."

_And yet as you say that, all I am thinking about is Finnick cracking a stupid sex joke to try and make me laugh._

"We can do a lot of things, Gale." I finish washing the boot and put it to one side. Then, I dunk the other in the basin of water. "We can hunt. We can climb. We can starve. We can hate. And, evidently, we can kiss." I don't look back at him. "That doesn't mean it's right."

"But it _is_ right, Katniss!" I hear his chair scrape against the floor but before I can turn to his his hands are on either side of me, trapping me against the counter. "We've known each other for years. We've talked about things we wouldn't dream of talking to anyone else about! People always said we were made for each other."

My hand locks around the boot, shaking. Why here? Why now? I'm already confused about my feelings for Gale enough without him... him shoving it in my face! And people are going to be set up to _die_ tomorrow - maybe people I _know_. And I have to mentor them. "Even so, Gale," I say. "That doesn't matter right now. We don't matter right now. No matter our feelings-"

Suddenly, I'm flipped around and Gale is staring down at me, smouldering. "No, Katniss. You always matter. We always matter. Your feelings matter because, if you've got _any_ about me, I want to know what they are."

I don't try to convince him otherwise. There's no point; trying to dictate what Gale thinks is pointless. Which, if I'm honest, is one of the reasons I trust him so much. "I don't _know_ how I feel, Gale!" I drop the wet boot to the floor, planting my hands firmly against his built chest and shoving him away from me. "I feel angry that the Capitol think it's okay to slaughter innocents as a sport!" I push him again." I feel upset that I'm going to have to lead someone to their death tomorrow!" And again. "I feel confused about you and the kiss and practically everything you say!" One last shove. "_And_ I feel down-right _furious_ that you _wont let this go when I have everything else going on!"_

Gale glares at me and bunches my hands together in his fist again his chest to stop me from pushing him again. "I can't just let it go, Katniss!" he shouts. "If I do, I'll never get an answer, don't you get it? It's been months since that kiss and things have been so different between us that I don't even know if you like me any more."

I wet my lips. "I do like you, Gale. You're my best friend."

"Well, at least something's straight." He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. "Liking me may be good enough for you but it's not for me. You just told me you were confused. I want a real answer, Katniss. I want to know everything you feel about me and I want to know _now - _because I love you."

Something inside of me deflates but I only stare, steadily, into Gale's eyes. I mull his words over and over in my head, feeling a sort of terrible mushiness settle in my chest. Then, almost stoically, I say, "I know."

I try to ignore the way Gale looks like he's been slapped or the way he stares at me incredulously, as if that was the last thing he expected to come out of my mouth. Yet he just straightens his back and hides it all away, immediately. He's too proud to show his feelings. "Well," he says, picking up his half-eaten apple, "that's that then, isn't it? I'll see you."

My mouth opens as if to call him back but I close it abruptly, turning away from him. I don't want to hurt him more than I have but I don't want to watch him leave, either. It'd be too hard - too difficult - to watch him go and not be sure if he'll come back because, after everything, he may not. He might decide that if I can't get my feelings straight, I'm not worth the effort; I'm not worth his time; I'm not worth his love.

I pick up the boot I dropped and continue to wash it.

What else am I meant to say to him? Do I love him? I don't know. Gale is everything to me - he's one of the only people I trust with everything I have in me and he cares about me, too. He looked after my family. He wont take my money. He loves me. He protects me. And what do I do? Digress the conversation, evade his questions, sleep with sleazy Capitol men, give my virginity to the one and only Finnick Odair _and_ I rub salt in the wound by thinking of him whilst talking to Gale, too. I feel like I'm with-holding information from him but he can't know. I'm too ashamed. He'd hate me! He'd get so angry that I've been sleeping around to keep him safe...

_Only because he loves you._

I blink. Yes. That's right. He'd get angry I'm doing that because he loves me. I mean, maybe his pride would come into it but... Oh, damn it, do I love him? Is that why I'm not telling him this stuff - for the sake of keeping his feelings safe? Or is it simply because telling him could cause his death? Maybe it's a mixture of the two.

My grip on the sponge tightens and I press harder against the boot, staring down at it through fogged eyes. I can feel the mushiness in my chest moving restlessly and I wriggle with it. How long have I been staring off in thought? Who knows. Probably not very long, though knowing me, it could be. Gale deserves my thoughts, though - and my time. He deserves it all. He's always been there for me and I can't live without him.

Can I?

Could I?

I don't know. _I don't know._ I'm not sure if I'm willing to find out, either. No, I'm definitely not sure. I need him in my life and - and if the only way to do that is... is through love, so be it. I'll love him. I can. I can do it. Maybe I already do.

_Liar._

No. I love him. I have to. That means I'm not lying to him, right? That means I'm not deceiving him and lying to him and tricking him for my own, selfish reasons by telling him I love him - I'm being honest. I'm letting my feelings out. I am. I have to be.

Right? I love him...

Without a second thought, I tug on my dad's hunting jacket and sprint out of the house, calling a quick good-bye to my mother and Primrose, wherever she is. People stare at me as I sprint past them, feeling the wind slap against my face and run its spindly fingers through my hair, trying desperately to tell myself that I love Gale and that I'm doing this for us, for him, for honesty - because I love him and I need him and he loves me.

Gale opens the door and stares at me, frowning. He goes to speak but I beat him to it and, when I do, not a second of hesitation passes on his face as he steps forward, wraps his arms around my waist and kisses me. Because I just told him I love him. I was a little breathless, a little quiet and a little plain but I spoke the words with my heart and soul and Gale has fallen for them hook, line and sinker.

"You mean it?" he asks, staring sceptically at me as he pulls back. "You love me?"

I nod, smiling something small. "Yes, Gale," I assure him. "I love you. I can't live without you."

Gale smashes his lips back on mine with a grin and as he does, I try desperately to ignore the little voice in the back of my head which, in a ghostly, sardonic whisper, reiterates, _"Liar. **Liar**. You don't love him. You don't love him..."_


	11. The Hungry Eleven

**Hello again! Sorry for the lack of Finnick (and words, for that matter) in the previous chapter; I was really sick so I wasn't up for writing. Also, I was tired when I wrote this, so sorry... Again. Anyway, here's some Finnick time! Next chapter, we return to the Capitol!**

**Also, I've found a way to virtually cure writer's block in association with this story! I listen to "Safe and Sound" by Taylor Swift, which was a song on the Hunger Games soundtrack. I'm more of a fan of old school and rock but, damn, it's such a beautiful song! So fitting, too. Anyway, here's the chapter.**

**Oh, by the way, all chapters are necessary, relevant and needed. I wouldn't include them otherwise, so sorry if it drags on a little. Trust me, though, I've got big plans for Katniss and Finnick soon :P**

* * *

I'm starting to wonder if sleeping will ever, really, be something I am good at. Since my Games I've had restless nights, which I spend tossing and turning and I've spent hours lying awake, thinking, just trying to fall into a deep and endless sleep - but if I ever do fall asleep on those nights, the sound of my own desperate screams whilst I endure a nightmare startle me awake.

Tonight is different, though. Yet it's different in a bad way.

You'd think, wouldn't you, that things could not get any worse. That being thrusted into the horrid reality of your life by your own screams, in which your nightmares really did happen and in which you make more nightmares, is as bad as it gets. It's not. Not really. Tonight is much worse...

Tonight I cannot sleep at all.

Ever since I was twelve, I have never been able to sleep the night before the Reaping. It was inevitable, really, considering that the next day might have brought my death; but now that time has been and gone, now I am a Victor, you think it would have stopped. You'd think I could sleep - that I deserved some damn _sleep_. Yet, even now that I have faced the Hunger Games and I can know, with certainty, that I will not be pulled for the Reaping tomorrow, sleep is impossible.

Every moment I lie here with my eyes closed, feeling the gloomy darkness writhe all around me, feelings and flashbacks and pictures scald my skin and, with a gasp, my eyelids ping open. When I close them again, the same thing happens - every single time. The memories are burned into my skin like everlasting scars; I can taste the adrenaline when I ran from the flames; I can feel the heat which licked at my heels; I can smell the damp muskiness of the damned cave which served as our refuge; I can hear Peeta's screams - Cato's screams - as the Muttations ripped them apart...

Something heaves from my chest and spills out my mouth, like I'm gagging. It takes me a moment to realise it's a sob. And then another. And another.

Quickly, I slap a hand over my mouth as I sit up and squeeze my eyes shut, feeling them sting and go tense because of how hard I'm concentrating on keeping them closed. The faces of the Tributes - all of them, _every single one_ - thump against my skull and I bash my head against the wall behind me, my other arm curling around my knees.

_They're dead they're dead they're dead they're dead_

My chest bursts. Melancholy grips harshly at my organs, squeezing, and I gasp through another cry which is muffled by my hand. Tears run down my face and trickle through my fingers, landing on my lips like salty reminders of my weakness. Deep inside me, guilt and sorrow and remorse thrum through my skeleton and shake me at my core.

_I am alive because they are dead._

_I am alive because they are dead._

_I am alive because they are_ **_dead_.**

In an instant, I have grabbed my phone. I can feel the hysteria thrashing around inside of me and, by now, I cry so freely that I can barely worry about Primrose or my mother hearing me. My shaky hand rubs across my face and smudges tears and damp hair all over my cheeks; I type in the number with my other hand, subconsciously. My covers lay like still waves around me.

There's a moment of silence as the phone connects to the line, beeping every second. Worry churns in my stomach like a tidal wave because _they might not pick up_ and I feel another sob crack through my lips. I don't hear it; I only hear the beep. The menacing, singular beep which rings constantly through my ears...

Then suddenly, it's gone. And I hear rustling on the end of the line.

Relief crashes down on me so abruptly that it makes me let slip another cry and my fingers pinch harshly at my lip, trying to stop my bawling, then let go. Before the other person can greet me, I breathe out in a desperate, wailing rush, "Finnick!" and take jittery, sudden breaths like I can't breathe.

Finnick sounds wide awake - like he hasn't slept, either. "Katniss?" he asks. "Is that you?"

My fingers trail across my forehead and press against it as I try to think, collecting little droplets of sweat. "Y-Yes," I splutter. "Finnick, the memories... I don't know what to do! I killed them all - every single one of them! They're all dead, just because I wanted to live! I watched them die and heard them scream and... They're dead, Finnick... All of them are dead..."

It takes me a moment to realise Finnick is calling my name down the phone as I blunder on. I stop suddenly, breathing harshly as I weep, and he says, "Come on, Katniss. Calm down. Breathe deeply."

I try it. I try desperately to do as he says but I feel the panic whoosh through my veins and feel the sorrow flood my lungs and another heartbroken cry racks my chest. A strained blub of frustration parts my lips. I grip fiercely at the duvet, shaking my head rapidly. "I can't!" I cry, sniffing. "I can't, Finnick. I can't do it."

"Yes, you _can_, Katniss." Finnick's voice is so soft, so caring and so empathetic that I feel myself able to concentrate on him despite everything else. "Deeply, now. In through you nose and out through your mouth."

I do what he says. It takes all my concentration and minutes of silence and bitter, whimpering sobs, before I finally manage to gain somewhat control of my breathing and whisper, "Okay."

His smile of relief is almost viewable down the phone. "Okay," he repeats. "Good. Are you okay now?"

My chest feels hollow. My eyes burn. My lips feel shaky and my heart is drumming in my chest. Regardless of all of it, I say, "Yes," and try to ignore the way my fingers twitch irritably.

Finnick sighs. "No, you're not, Katniss," he says. "I just asked that to see if you'd tell me the truth."

My mind flickers to Gale; _"Yes, Gale. I love you." _"Don't take it personally," I mumble."I lie to everyone."

There's a silence for a moment and I pick at the ends of my fingers, feeling weak and empty and pathetic. I already know how much I'll regret all of this: the sobbing, the crying to Finnick. This is only a moment of weakness. I'll be fine.

"You can't lie to me, though, girl on fire," Finnick says finally. "I've gone through what you're going through - or don't you remember?"

Right. Of course I remember. That's why I rung him... Well, I think it is, anyway. It must be.

"I know, Finnick," I mutter.

Finnick continues. "I was actually expecting this to happen," he says. "I just didn't expect you to come to me when it did."

His words sting me like an insult and I feel myself deflate even more. "I'm sorry," I say. "I didn't mean to bother you-"

"Oh, it's no bother." He's smiling. I can hear it. It makes my spirit pick up. "I'm actually happy that you came to me."

I don' reply for a moment. In fact, we must sit there in silence for five minutes before one of us even makes a sound. His breathing from the other end of the line, though, is constant, and I take silent comfort in it as I try to match my breaths with his. "You said you were expecting this," I say suddenly. My mouth is so dry. "How? What did you mean?"

"I mean that I knew you'd get like this," Finnick says. "We all do. It happens to the best of us. Normally, it's the night before Reaping. Some break before even that. Others after."

"And you..?"

"Me? I broke after the Reaping," he says, "when my first Tribute, Harshall, was in the arena..." Finnick suddenly sounds so subdued - so far away - that I want to jolt him from his mind; scream at him to come back to me because whatever he's thinking about has got to be torture. At a time like this, that's all thoughts can be. Torture. "He got into a situation that was too familiar to me and I had several flashbacks. That situation almost killed me." He pauses again. "It did kill him."

I don't know what to say. What can you say? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No matter what, no words can help his situation - this situation. No words can fix the wrongness and the scarring of the Hunger Games. So instead, I simply admit: "I'm nervous."

Don't ask me how I know because I couldn't tell you, yet I know that Finnick is scratching his bicep as he speaks. "So am I." There's another small silence. "I don't know whether it's because I'm worried for my Tribute, or worried about mentoring them."

"It's both for me," I mumble. "It's all I've been able to think about for days. I keep thinking that I'll fail them or that I'll mentally shut down in the middle of their Games... What if they die, Finnick? What if I can't help them properly? Twenty four go in and only one comes out." I pause, closing my eyes. "What if they come out?"

Is survival worse than dying? Yes. Definitely, it is. Sure, you're alive. You're breathing. You're seeing. You're smelling, touching, _being_. Yet you're not living, not really. You're like the walking dead when you come out; broken and scarred; toughened and changed. You're never the same when you're a Victor.

The consequences of survival are too much to bare.

"If they die, Katniss, it's not your fault," Finnick says. "You'll be a brilliant mentor. You know how to help them; what to do; you've been there. You can only pass on what you know."

"But I-"

"No, Katniss!" I can almost imagine Finnick placing his finger to my lips and smirking in that weird, _I'm-concerned-for-you_ way. "You wont be the one killing them. The person with the knife or the person with the bow or the axe or the trident - they'll be the one who's killed them. Not you."

I find myself biting back a protest because, yes, he's right. I know he is; I won't have killed them. I won't have been the murderer of them. Yet what if... "What if I don't save them?" I ask. "What if I don't get enough sponsors?"

Finnick's voice softens. "Katniss," he says. "No matter what, _it's not your fault_. Do you hear me? The only person to blame here - the only people at fault - is President Snow and the Capitol."

I exhale. I relax. I breathe. I listen. "You're right," I say. "You're completely right..."

Finnick chuckles deeply. A white hot spark shoots up my spine at the noise and makes me shiver. I frown, not irritated but more confused. I guess it's just because no matter what, Finnick is the sea-green-eyed, seductive Victor from 4 who will always be irresistible - no matter what.

"Haven't you learned by now, girl on fire, that I'm always right?" Finnick's voice is teasing, playful, and I feel my lips tweak upwards at the sound.

"You were right about the sugar cubes," I agree, "that's for sure."

The misery stops, right then and there. We just joke and laugh and console each other in words which don't really say much but speak to us in a different way; an understanding way; a Victor way; a Katniss and Finnick way. No matter what, the way we connect and comfort and talk to each other will always be different to that of a normal person but, that's okay, because we're not normal. Not really.

We're Victors. Scarred Victors. And, really, that entitles us to be entirely, irrevocably and unwaveringly different; because we've seen more than eyes should be able to see and felt more than the heart should be able to feel.

* * *

The Reaping for the 74th Hunger Games starts with a coffee. Lots of coffee, in fact, to compensate for my lack of sleep the previous night. I take it black and bitter, just like this day feels. Just like Reaping Day always feels.

Prim is quiet. Silent, even. She dresses in exactly what she wore last year - the skirt and the top, with the little duck tail - but she looks composed. Measured.

I know why. Even though she has a chance of being Reaped after I took her place last year, the odds of her being pulled again... It's virtually impossible. She's nervous, though. Nervous like me. And why shouldn't she be? It's still the Reaping. No matter what, it will always invoke dread.

Even if you're safe.

You can't help but wonder who it might be - what might happen. You think about knowing the person and if you've seen them; you think about their families and their emotions; you think about how you'd feel if it were you.

Never do you think it will be you.

"You'll be okay, Prim," I say as I crouch in front of her. "It's okay. it wont be you."

Prim nods but she looks pale. Too pale. "What if it is, Katniss?" she asks quietly. "It's already been me once, why shouldn't it be me ag-"

Hushing her, I pull her into my chest for a hug. "It wont be you, little duck." I tuck in the tail of her top. "It can't be."

Her hands grip the back of my dress in fists as she hugs me back. "You don't know that," she says. "You can't. So, what if it is?"

My mouth goes dry at the thought and, suddenly, I've pulled back from her and I'm staring her dead in the eye, gripping at her shoulders. "It wont be, Prim," I repeat. "You've been reaped once. It's unlikely you'll be reaped again." When I see Prim open her mouth as if to speak, I continue, "And even if it is, which it wont be, I'll be with you. I'll be your mentor. You wont be alone, Prim."

Primrose smiles shakily and nods, though she still looks half-scared to death. "Is mum okay?"

I nod and try out a strained smile, though I'm feeling worse and worse as the day goes on. "She's fine, little duck. She's sleeping."

Our mother has been seriously sick with some sort of flu for the past two days. She can't get out of bed, she can't talk, she can barely eat. Her room smells stuffy and infectious; like simply stepping in there will make you ill. "I gave her some soup when I said goodbye."

"Do you think I..."

"Yes, Prim," I say. I stand up and step to the side, indicating to the stairs. "She'll want to see you. Just try to be quick, okay? We don't want to be late..."

Prim doesn't take long, as it happens. If Prim really thought she was going to be reaped, she would have taken much longer in her goodbye - which, honestly, eases my spirits a little. Not having to worry about her as much makes this whole ordeal a little easier. Yet not by much.

As we walk, slowly, from the house to join the Reaping, I think back to last night. Finnick really helped me. No matter how pathetic and idiotic I find myself thinking I was, now... Damn it, he helped me. Everything he says reassures me and makes me feel less pathetic, less insane, less.. vulnerable. He makes me feel stronger; better; happier.

He makes me _feel_. Maybe that is all that is important.

When I'm with talking to him or laughing with him or, even when I'm just with him and around him, he makes me feel better. My thoughts aren't constant sadness and emptiness around him; they're happy and fun-filled and hopeful - and honest. No matter what, I will always be truthful to Finnick. I constantly tell him what's wrong and why... I trust him. Perhaps, even, more than I trust Gale.

Why, though? _Why do I trust Finnick Odair so damned much?_

Primrose leaves me as normal procedure. I hug her, fiercely and tightly and desperately for a few minutes before she does leave, though - or maybe I'm the one to go. I'm not so sure. It's probably mutual; we both need to be somewhere else and... and those places, no matter how incredulous it seems, are more important right now than hugging each other is.

Prim will be fine. I'll be fine. It'll be _fine._

Haymitch is already on stage and I join his side, greeting him quickly before looking out, passive, to the silent and growing crowd. Their faces are pale and drawn out into several hundred emotions: fear, dread, sadness, worry, anxiety, freight, anticipation, horror...

I wonder what emotion I wore when I was standing there. When I was preparing myself to be a Tribute - a lamb set up for slaughter. I was probably emotionless - I showed nothing because I couldn't afford to show anyone emotion.

And then Prim's name was called.

The memory causes my heart to clench and I shake my head, inhaling slowly. No. No thinking of that. Prim is fine - Prim will be fine. She will not be reaped.

"Katniss," Gale calls from the edge of the stage. "Katniss!"

I look to him, frowning, and rush forward. My dress flutters around my knees. I try to ignore it. "Gale?" I ask. I quickly clamber down the stairs and throw myself into his arms, breathing in his scent deeply and let his strong arms practically crush me. "What are you doing here?"

"It's the Reaping," he says. His eyes burn with resentment. "We're not allowed to work today. I wanted to come see you before I go over there." He nods to the crowd of spectators: mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles, grandmas, grandads, sisters, brothers... I wonder how many of them will say goodbye to this year's Tributes.

Smiling a strained yet thankful smile at him, I stare up in his eyes. "Thank you," I say quietly.

Gale nods. He either seems to forget that we're supposedly cousins or, of course, her doesn't care because he leans down and kisses me softly on the lips. "I love you," he whispers. "You'll be okay."

I tighten my arms around him. "I'll be okay," I agree. "I love you, too."

Gale kisses me once more before jogging over to the crowd. I savour the feel of his lips on mine as I climb back on the stage.

And then, not minutes later, it begins.

"Welcome, welcome, one and all!" Effie Trinket's voice sounds haunting and patronising through the sleek, shiny microphone, which looks ridiculous in our District. Our starving, deprived District... "It's a new year and a new Reaping! We have, amazingly, reached the 74th Hunger Games!"

Effie is clueless. She beams a big smile out to the crowd, looking ostentatious in her lime green outfit, as if the Hunger Games are something we enjoy; as if the Reaping is a pleasure. For Districts 1, 2 and 4, I'm sure it is; there, it's an honour to be chosen. Here, the very idea is an outrage. Here, it makes men, women and children sick with dread. Here, it is hated.

In the Capitol, however - in Effie Trinket's head - it is entertainment. A sick, bloodthirsty form of reality TV.

Effie ignores the taut, detesting atmosphere. "Now, before we begin, we have a very special video brought to you directly from the Capitol!" Taking a step back, Effie watches the screen flicker to life and the video, which we have all seen more times than we can endure, begins to play.

I catch Gale's eyes as I look away from the screen, disgusted. He rolls his eyes and I roll mine in return, smiling ever so slightly._  
_

The video ends. Effie breaths out a contented sigh which is sort of, also, a laugh. "Oh, I just love that!" she says. "It never gets old."

I resist the urge to scoff and cross my arms, ignoring the emotion stirring within me.

"Now, the time has come to select this year's courageous Tributes from District 12!" Effie pulls her glove more firmly onto her hand. "First, as tradition, we shall start with the boys."

Effie trots over to the large, glass bowl. I notice she's a little wobbly in her tall heels - go figure.

Then, the atmosphere drops in a low, dangerous hum of fear and angst. You can taste the brittleness of the air on your tongue; capture the freight of the boys and girls below.

Effie's hand searches slowly, spinning and twisting in the bowl before it finally swoops down and catches a slim piece of paper between two fingers. She retracts her hand then wobbles back over to the microphone. Everything seems to be going in slow motion.

I find myself praying it's not one of Gale's younger brothers.

"Logan Atlas!" Effie announces. There's a stir in the crowd in which my heart both drops and lifts at the same time; sure, it's not one of Gale's brothers but a boy has been reaped, nonetheless. And what more did I expect?

"Well, come on, dear, don't be shy!" Effie calls, smiling down at the tall, lean boy who finds himself skulking towards the stage. "Come on, now!"

When the boy - Logan - reaches the stairs, she pulls him up and positions him next to her. Effie is smiling but Logan... Logan is impassive. He is staring straight ahead with fogged eyes, though I can see the strain in his expression and the slight furrow of his eyebrows.

He is much more disessed than he would like to let on. And I don't blame him.

No one does.

"And now, for the girls!"

Effie repeats the long, tense process; she takes ages to pick up a slip, once more, and even longer to open it up. Then, finally, she says, "Fiona Atlas!"

My eyes flicker to Logan. His mask has dropped and his face is a mixture of anger and anguish.

I realise, immediately, that the two are related.

Fiona stumbles up the stage; she's rather tall with mousy hair and classical Seam grey eyes. Her expression is not guarded; she looks both horrified and close to tears.

Effie pulls her in position at her other side. "Now, I believe after last year I shall ask for volunteers!" She grins, searching the crowd. "So, boys and girls, are there any volunteers?!"

No one comes forward, as expected. No one moves or says anything and I shuffle on my feet, wondering if Effie will say anything about the Tributes' obvious relation to each other.

She doesn't. "All right, then!" she says instead. She wears that same, sickening smile. "Let's give it up for this year's Tributes of the 74th Hunger Games."

No one claps. This is normal, too. Expected.

Effie pretends not to notice. "Well, that closes this years Reaping!" she chirps. I can't help but feel sorry for her; Effie is constant try and never win. "Happy Hunger Games," she recites, "and may the odds be _ever _in your favour."


	12. The Hungry Twelve

**Hey, guys. Here's an update. Remember to review! You guys haven't been as commenting as much and it's making me feel a little... conscious of this story. Is it boring you? Do you not like it? Is something wrong? I don't know. Maybe I should start afresh.**

**Here's the chapter anyway. I hope you enjoy it! I don't like this chapter very much but I haven't edited it yet, so... OH! Also, there's A LOT more Finnick next chapter! :P**

* * *

Saying goodbye, not matter what you're heading into the Hunger Games as, is always hard. For the Tributes, it is like wishing your life away whilst trying to let your loved ones, your family, know that you really do care. That you don't want to go and leave them. That you will try your hardest to win, even if you think it's futile. And then, just like that, they are ripped from you whilst they cry or shout your name, and the last memory you have of them before you face your probable death, is one of pain.

For me, saying goodbye brings back what it was like when I was a tribute. It's not the same - of course it's not - but it's hard to see Prim and Gale and my mother, anyway. It's hard knowing that the Tributes are being torn away from their families and forced to grow up far too fast. It's hard knowing that not too long ago, that was me, too. It's hard remembering and knowing that soon, I will be drowning in memories and nightmares...

My arms tighten around Gale, who returns the gesture. "You'll be home soon," he says. "It's not like last time."

My heart feels wooden. I can hear this tiny, mocking voice cackling in the back of my head. _That's not what I'm worried about_. "I know," I mumble, stepping back a little to look at him. Gale looks strong and tall - like every bit of the man he is - but also concerned. "It's okay. I'll have Haymitch."

Having Haymitch Abernathy and - not to mention - Finnick Odair is surely going to help me along the way. Sure, Haymitch is constantly drunk and sarcastic and damn-right patronising but he understands me. He's my friend and I respect him. As for Finnick... Well, Gale surely doesn't need to know about him. He'll probably throw a jealous tiff. Besides, Finnick's just a friend - a friend I trust, respect and can go to about anything. A friend who understands me and is going through exactly what I am...

A friend who is the only person to truly know _everything_ that's going on with me.

I take a moment to realise how odd it is that the one person who knows everything about me is the one person, a year ago, I would have thought untrustworthy, conceited, cocky, promiscuous - and a bunch of other things. _That's just what Snow wanted us to think, though, isn't it? He wanted his slaves to feel all alone..._

Gale looks unconvinced. "Haymitch?" he asks, raising an eyebrow. "Come on, Catnip. The guy's a damn drunkard."

A frown drops onto my face as I stare at Gale, kind of irritated. "He's also my friend," I say, "and he's someone I respect a lot."

"Respect?" Gale pulls his hands from my back, furrowing his eyebrows. "Why do you respect him? For winning the Hunger Games? For outsmarting the other Tributes? For drinking himself to death?"

I pull away. We stand two feet from each other. I can feel the indignation and the annoyance stirring up a storm in my chest, and shake my head in incredulity. "No, Gale." My voice is firm. "Not because of that - of _any _of that. I respect Haymitch Abernathy because he is one of the only people that understand me and understand what it feels like to have murdered innocents in a sick little game for the Capitol, and win. He understands what it's like being the Victor of the Hunger Games - a title you hate so much it rips your skin apart until you're raw. I respect Haymitch because he is there for me and because, even after all he has been through, he hasn't overdosed or given up - he's fighting, even when he's so damn drunk he can't stand. You don't know what it's _like, _Gale. For us, breathing is a struggle - breathing is us _trying,_ for God's sake! _You don't know the consequences,_ Gale Hawthorne. You don't know what it's like! I respect Haymitch more than anyone. I love you - but you make it harder to do that when you act like an ignorant pig."

Gale stiffens and glares at me for what seems like an eternity but is really only a fraction of a second; then, he softens and steps closer to me. He brushes a piece of hair behind my ear then looks into my eyes, cutting through me. "The consequences, huh?" he says. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be an ass but I want to help you, Katniss. It's just that, recently, there's been nothing I can do to help you with your pain."

"Pain?"

He nods sadly and wraps his long, broad arms around me again. It makes me feel kind of hollow. "Of course, Katniss. I'm not blind. You constantly look like you're missing a part of you, now..."

..._Finnick..._

I gulp. There's a lump in my throat - of sadness, of guilt, of... of confusion. I don't know. _I don't know. _God, what's there? What am I missing? Why is there this damn lump lodged in my throat?! "I'm... fine, Gale. It's just after Peeta and Rue died I've been feeling-"

Gale suddenly sighs heavily and pulls back, almost abruptly. "Is that it?" His voice is so hard - so foreign. "You really did love him, didn't you? _Peeta_."

I frown and shake my head. "What? No, Gale, I love-"

"Me? Right. You love me." Gale laughs bitterly and turns from me, shaking his head. I watch the anger twist his face as he frowns and glares at nothing. He restlessly runs a hand through his hair and sends me a fleeting glance. "Don't tell me you love me. You're a liar. You don't love me - you love _him._ Peeta. I'm never going to compare with that damned-"

Something possesses me, all of a sudden. I don't know what it is or why it's there but before I can comprehend the urge, I slam my lips against Gale's and kiss him like my life depends on it. It's hot and hard and heavy and when we pull back, we're gasping for air. "I love _you_," I tell him fiercely. "_You._ Don't make me try and tell you this again, Gale, because I cannot be asked with this idiocy with everything else I've got going on. I love you, okay? Don't do this. I love you."

_Liar._

Gale stares at me, in shock and in a daze. Then he grins. "You do, don't you?" he asks, proudly. "Dammit, Catnip, I'm sorry. That was such a stupid thing for me to say. I know you loved Peeta and I know it's hard for you - but you never loved him the way you love me." He shakes his head and sighs, making my anger evaporate. "I'm such a... Dammit, I'm sorry."

"It's okay." There's a rap at the door. A Peacekeeper walks in and grabs Gale's arm firmly.

He shrugs it off. "Good luck," he whispers, and kisses me again. "I love you."

I smile stiffly. I feel my soul sink into my stomach. "I love you, too," I say, and try desperately to ignore the betrayal my heart stings with.

_Liar._

* * *

Emotions aren't something I admit freely, nor constantly. I tell myself this is why, when telling Gale I love him, I feel uncertain, awkward and _wrong; _because, yes, it feels so wrong telling him I love him. It's like I'm pulling my beating heart up through my throat and shoving it into his hands, out of force or force of habit. In fact, it feels so wrong that sometimes I wonder if the heart I'm giving him is truly my own, or if my heart is truly his to hold - but then I shake it off and tell myself I'm being silly.

Silly is not how I'm feeling right now.

"You're related."

I speak the words coldly and hopelessly into the silence, as I look back and forth between Logan and Fiona. They're sitting close together; Logan is rubbing her back reassuringly and casting long, concerned glances at her whilst Fiona sits stiffly and stares endlessly into space. I know how she feels; I want to sit here in silence, too but I have a duty. I can't let them die. I can't.

"We're twins." Logan visibly swallows and looks to me with the ghost of a smile. "I can practically hear her thoughts sometimes..."

Twins. _Twins._ A twin brother and sister are forced to face each other off in a fight to the death? Damn Snow and his bloody Hunger Games. This is so sick. This is all sick! It's gone too far this time.

_No. It went too far when the first drop of blood was spilled in the first ever Hunger Games._

Even though the hysteria building up inside of me is growing stronger and stronger, I clamp it down, feeling deterred and tired. Emotions have drained me far too much lately and this train ride is lasting for what seems like an eternity, even if it is so silent and so smooth it's like we're riding on air. How long have we been on this thing, now? It's hard to tell.

"Twins..." The word is a ghost on my lips. "How old are you?

Logan glances at Fiona, as if expecting her to reply. She looks up at me briefly and smiles shakily, before looking to Logan. Everything she does is slow and small, yet deliberate, and I feel an ebb of sorrow push up into my throat. It sticks. "We're fifteen," Logan says for her.

My eyes close. A slow, breathy exhale parts my lips as I try desperately to calm my anger. "I'm sorry this happened to you," I reply after a moment. My eyes open and I stare unwaveringly from Logan to Fiona, feeling more and more determined to help them - and more and more weighed down. "It shouldn't have happened to you."

"It shouldn't happen to anyone," Logan says. "That doesn't prevent it."

My head nods by it's own accord as I think that through because I think Logan's been misinformed; there is one person that should be reaped, and that's _Snow._ Snow is the scum of the earth, the creator of the Games, and he deserves more than anyone to know how it feels in there. To know the irreparable scars it leaves you with that makes you wonder if living is, really, any better than dying. Not that I'd say all that to Logan, of course. There is so much more he needs to knwo - so much more to ensue his survival...

However, before I can reply with a seemingly off-topic choice of words, Haymitch stumbles in. He's clutching a glass of whisky close to his chest like it's his baby. The ice tumbles around in the drink and _clinks_ against the side of the glass which makes him glance down in what seems like confusion. The sudden movement makes his head spin and he stumbles into the door frame, spilling a line of golden alcohol down his chest.

Haymitch wipes it up with his thumb and sucks on it. Then, he snorts. "Bloody ice," he mutters.

I clear my throat, noticing Logan's baffled look. Haymitch looks my way, as if noticing us for the first time. "All right, sweetheart?" he asks. He chuckles rather gruffly. "Sounds like you got a cough, there."

"I was just telling Logan and Fiona-"

"That they should embrace the probability of their imminent death?" His eyes scan them briefly; I notice Fiona is suddenly looking a little shakier. "Nice one, sweetheart. That's what I tell _all_ my tributes."_  
_

My eyes narrow. I shake my head. "No. I was giving them advice."

Haymitch flops drunkenly down on the sofa. "Oh, right..." He takes a long, messy drink. "_Advice_. Keep going then, sweetheart. Perhaps you can get in some worthwhile words before this god-damn journey ends."

As it happens, I do.

I run them through protocol with Effie, who titters at the slightest schedule error I make, and the secrets of winning the Hunger Games. I tell them about sponsors and how they relate to your personality, and how Haymitch and I will try help them with that when the time comes. I tell them being liked is the key. I give them advice on finding water or food, and I tell them of the Capitol's plans to make the arena harder for you and how your mentor can somewhat communicate with you using gifts. I tell them about training and how to go about it; I tell them about taking risks; I tell them about the art of disguise. And, I tell them, finally, about who's mentoring who; I'll be with Fiona, as she's the girl and Haymitch with be with Logan. Logan seems happy with the arrangement and explains that he wants Fiona to have me because "I'm sober and I'll give her a better chance at survival."

The lessons pass in a flash and so, before we know it, we're in the Capitol. Effie immediately leads the tributes to the Remake Centre and I, clueless, wonder aimlessly after them. That is, until Haymitch tells me we can head on over to the Tribute Tower in the Training Centre for a while before the opening ceremony. I agree.

District 12's flat has not changed one bit. It is still wide and airy and retro, with large rooms and oddly shaped furniture. Everything's still in block colour - blues, greens, silvers, whites - and I head into the second mentor's room which is next to Haymitch's previous room. I almost walk into my old, tribute room, too.

It's weird, all the memories surrounding this place. It's like I can grab them from the air, weave them through my fingers like a tangible mist, and pull them as a cloak over me. I wouldn't, though, because most memories I find either leave me sad or scared or empty. And instead I find myself plopping down on my bed.

Haymitch is silent next door, apart from the occasional burp and stumble, or the bang of an empty bottle against the floor. I feel a heavy sigh rack my body as my arm covers my eyes and I try desperately to ignore the horrid gloom suffocating my heart. To be forced into mentoring tributes, to be forced into giving my body to random ex-sponsors, to be forced into reliving the Hunger Games over and over again...

"Why so glum, girl on fire? I thought you'd be anxious to see me again."

My eyes ping open. I pull my arm from my head and rapidly sit up, growing dizzy - but I don't care. I only care about the tall, golden-skinned, sea-green-eyed man leaning coolly against my door frame with a crooked grin. My breath ceases for a heartbeat and then I breathe out, desperately and quietly, "_Finnick_..."

Finnick Odair's grin widens as he pushes himself up to his full height. "Well, I don't know anyone else called 'Finnick' that can make you scream like I can. Do you, Katniss?"

I don't care about the sex joke. I just care about Finnick and breathing him in and talking to him and seeing him... Oh, God. Is it possible to have missed someone as much as I did him? It was like a part of me was missing without him around - like I was constantly aching. And I'm still missing him, even when he's right in front of me. Dammit, he confuses me. And yet my mind feels clearer than it has in weeks.

Suddenly, I'm off the bed and I've ran into his arms, grinning. "You have no idea how happy I am to see you," I say honestly. I breathe in, deeply, the scent of sea salt and sugar and feel it ease my dampened spirits.

Finnick's arms tighten around me and he chuckles lightly. "Falling for me already, girl on fire?" he asks. There's a sort of huskiness to his tone and I hear him take in a big gulp of air. That's when I know he's missed me, too. "That's a dangerous game."

I pull back and shrug. Despite my next words, I can't stop grinning. "I've already played the Hunger Games, Finnick. No game can get to me now."

Finnick doesn't reply. He only stares at me, still smiling, before he pulls me back into his chest and laughs. "You missed me!" he states.

"So?" I feel his heartbeat thumping against his chest and take comfort in the warmth of his body. "You missed me, too."

Finnick doesn't deny it. "Oh, girl on fire," he says instead. "I missed you more than I care to admit."

* * *

**Also, for those of you that asked, yes, Finnick and Katniss are DEFINITELY going to have another night together. ;)**


	13. The Hungry Thirteen

**Thank you for the lovely reviews you guys gave me last chapter! I'm feeling much better about this story now I know you're actually enjoying it. It's nice knowing that you like my work and I'm not just writing it for my own entertainment. You're all amazing, believe it or not. Anyway, here's the next chapter. Enjoy! There's a big dose of Finnick in this one, just for you! I don't know what's up with me recently but as of late, I've not been amazingly pleased with my work. I don't know, maybe it's just me. Enjoy this, anyway! :P**

* * *

"Logan, stop fussing! Fiona, do stand up _straight,_ dear."

Effie Trinket is like the overbearing, fussy mother of each and every tribute that walks out of District 12. With her crazy hair, eccentric clothes and Capitol accent, you'd think her more of a clown - or, in District 12 we would - but with a touch of some sort of strange beauty. In reality, she's just an over-organised, do-it-by-the-book kind of woman, who bares way too much enthusiasm for a 'game' which kills people. You can't blame her, though. It's how she was brought up to think.

_It's how we were all brought up to think, really. It's just that some of us could see the brutality in it._

Cinna shakes his head at Effie, smiling slightly. "They're fine, Effie," he says. He turns to the twins, looking a lot more sympathetic now he's facing the nervous pair. "You're going to look great. Just remember to hit the buttons on your sleeves like Portia and I told you, okay?"

Logan and Fiona nod, though Logan asks nervously, "And it's completely safe?" By now, it is obvious to everyone he wants to hide his anxiety and fear from Fiona, and does so successfully. She seems oblivious to his emotions; it's as if she thinks he's just worried about her safety and that he's totally unperturbed by the fact that he may, in two weeks time, be dead. Or maybe she's just too caught up in her own fear to notice.

I answer Logan on behalf of Cinna. "Don't worry about it," I say, though I have no idea what their costumes entail. "Last year, I was put on fire and I didn't burn to death."

It suddenly occurs to me that what I said was, probably, not very reassuring.

Logan, regardless, nods and looks a little uplifted. "Okay, cool," he says. "So long as I don't die before my time."

_And your time might be very soon_.

Fiona seems to share my thoughts because she looks to him, wide-eyed, and whispers, "Please don't talk like that. I can't bear to think about you..." It's as if the word '_dying_' is some sort of hex which she forbids herself from saying. That, or she's distracted by the tears she's now rapidly blinking out of her eyes.

Logan shakes his head and pulls her into a long hug. He looks so pained, so young and so kind for a moment, that I'm stricken with thoughts of Peeta - and instantly, a depression slams into me like a metal-headed bull charging straight at my abdomen. Along with a tidal wave of guilt. _I haven't been thinking of him as much as I should be._

God, the _guilt._ It's like... I feel like I'm dishonouring him by not thinking of him constantly because if I'm not the one thinking of him, then who is? Maybe his mother or his brothers are but... What if they aren't? What if I'm the only one left who has the time and the freedom to think about him? It's absurd, really - _I'm_ absurd. Yet I can't help thinking about whether it's true, and because of that I tell myself, _force myself, _to think of Peeta more often.

And that leads me on to Gale.

Oh, dammit! _Gale._ Gale, the man who loves me, the man who's waiting for me in District 12, the man who has no idea I'm giving my body away, the man _who's alive._ Yet he's also the man who has no clue I feel like I'm betraying my heart by being with him. Maybe that betrayal is to do with Peeta but... God, I don't know. I just don't _know_. I'm my own person and yet I don't know a damned thing about myself!

_Finnick does._

I blink suddenly, caught of guard. Yes. Finnick _does_ know me. He knows me really well, in fact. Maybe he can help me figure out this mess? I mean, the mess being the love and the guilt I feel over and for Peeta and his death; the wrongness and the betrayal I feel by being with Gale; the confusion I feel by only ever wishing to be with hi-

No. Maybe it's best not to mention that last one. Regardless, I should go to Finnick; I'm _going _to go and talk to Finnick. Get some advice. He's a man, after all. A man who knows me more than others. He'll know what to do. Hopefully.

"Katniss?"

Crash-landing in reality, I turn to Cinna, who's frowning concernedly at me. "Sorry, what?" I ask.

"I said we've got to go wait for them on the other side, now." His eyes linger on me for a moment more before he turns back to Logan and Fiona and says, "You'll be great. Smile. Look proud. Really exaggerate your relationship."

They nodded nervously and started to climb into the chariot. I manage to get in a few words of encouragement and a goodbye before I am dragged away to where the tributes will re-enter the Training Centre. The room is large and spacious, though all around are mentors and stylists, laughing and talking. It's sruprising, seeing them all talk to each other; I though the Districts would remain to themselves. I'm forced to remember that they've all probably been in this game for so long that they know each other like the backs of their hands so, of course, they're friends.

Then, not a second after I turn to the large, HD screen which we'll watch the ceremony on, I'm reminded that I have friends from other Districts, too. Or maybe just one.

"Dressed to impress, girl on fire?" Finnick asks in my ear. His breath smells unmistakeably and familiarly of sugar. As always. "You know you're already loved."

I roll my eyes. "I dressed so I'm not walking around naked," I say. "Some of us like being clothed."

"And some of us would like it if you preferred being unclothed, thank you." Finnick, slowly and sensually, glides his index finger up the length of my inner-arm then down my waist and hips. He's so close to me that I can feel his warmth radiating from his chest.

It takes all of my restraint _not_ to do something I'll regret - like touch him, lean in to him, turn to him and-

"Goosebumps." Finnick Odair's laugh is so silky and golden that if I could only listen to one sound for the rest of my entire life, I know I'd choose that. His laugh. "I gave you goosebumps."

I ignore the deep, satin quality to his voice and focus on breathing. His finger is running up the length of my arm again. His breath is still brushing over my neck. I can feel his presence, so strong and tall and masculine behind me, and suddenly I find myself turning around and meeting him dead in the eyes. "Yes," I say, because it's true. A shiver tries to burst through me. I suppress it. "You did."

Finnick's eyes burn through mine like hot honey. They look a darker, deeper shade of green, and his pupils have dilated. "Don't you get goosebumps because you're cold? I thought you were the girl on fire, Katniss Everdeen. Getting cold is not what you do." His words are tender, whispered and warm, and they melt me to the extent that it takes me a moment to realise that what has clouded his eyes is _desire_. A smirk pulls at the corners of his mouth. "Or maybe you've got goosebumps because you're thinking about seeing me naked."

That severs the trance immediately. I step back. His pupils shrink again. The thick, sugary, sea-salted shroud which had engulfed me seems to be, now, only a wisp. "No," I say. There's a blush on my cheeks and I feel a stab of irritation in my gut. "I was cold."

His grin slinks into something small and sexy. His eyelids droop and he bends down, breathing a hot gust of air over my face. This time, I do shiver. "Oh? Well I know a few techniques to warm up..." He steps closer to me, drawing me in. "...Though I very much doubt coldness is what made you shiver just then."

I want to reply - I try to! - but by the time I finally manage to string my thoughts together in a fairly comprehensible sentence, the Capitol anthem is blasting out of the speakers behind me and the screen is flickering to life.

Caesar Flickerman introduces the show. And then, the chariots ride on in.

The costumes are as they are every year, though stylists have tried to steal a few pages from Cinna's and Portia's books. The fish-people's scales from District 4 glow, which is about as reasonable as the ideas get. Other than that, the outfits are insane. Caesar is ever the optimist, however, and says nothing of the sort.

And then, we see District 12.

They spark. Not as in sparkles, like the fireworks I've seen in the Capitol before, no - but they _spark_. It's a spark like the lighting of a match or the heavy, echoing clink of a pickaxe against rock, which ricochets off the mine walls. They look young and powerful - the sparks burst to life whenever they move the slightest amount and trails after them, mirroring their actions - and the dark, almost powdery-style of their outfit completes the look completely. Their hair is wild yet somehow tamed, too, and Fiona's make-up is so dark and alluring, with little tip-ends of silver and blue, that it's hard to think she's a shy, scared girl. Logan's wearing just a smidgen of blue and black around his eyes but apart from that, there is nothing. And he looks _strong._ Together, they stand united as twins, gripping each other's hands between them and acting as if the audience does not exist, and they're just sat at home with each other, as if it's an everyday occurrence.

And it works like magic.

When the chariots stop and President Snow makes his speech, I look to Cinna with a smile and shoot him a thumbs up. He smiles back at me and shrugs, and we watch the rest of his speech until Finnick leaves me to congratulate his tributes. I do the same.

Then, the chariots enter and District 12 pulls to a stop. Effie is _glowing._ "That was incredible!" she says, fanning herself. "Truly marvellous! Well done, you two! Well done!"

Logan shrugs and a shy smile pulls at Fiona's lips. "We did exactly what you said," she says, glancing at the stylists.

"It's harder when you're out there." Everyone turns to me so I shrug and explain, "Well, it is, isn't it? There's a sort of resentment inside of you. It makes it harder to act."

No-one says anything for a while and I realise that is the first time I have ever said anything so... open. To them, anyway - Effie, especially. She looks sort of appalled.

"Don't let anyone catch you saying that!" she whispers frantically. "No-one! Not a word!"

I suppress the urge to ask her why I'd tell anyone who adores the Hunger Games that, and instead only nod tightly. Attention is then drawn from me as everyone starts cooing over the twins again. Cinna and Portia tug at the outfits and grin, nodding, whilst people compliment them and the heavy eyes from other tributes linger hatefully over us. They tell Logan and Fiona how amazing they performed before Haymitch, with a belch, stumbles forwards and starts clapping loudly.

"Really, _bravo_," Haymitch says. He smells like a brewery. "Nicely done."

Fiona blushes. "It wasn't anything special," she mumbles.

Sea-salt sweeps through the air. A hot, strong presence makes itself known beside me. "Oh, I think it was very special," Finnick says. He smiles down at Fiona kindly. "My tributes are spitting fire."

Fiona's blush brightens and she moves closer to Logan, who wraps an arm around her protectively. "Thanks," he replies for her, if a little stiffly.

Finnick shrugs and nods towards Cinna and Portia. "It's them you should be thanking. You're the talk of the show." Finnick smiles at the group as a whole once more before he turns directly to me and, as if everyone's just disappeared, he swoops down to meet me dead in the eyes. I had almost forgotten how green his eyes were - like crystal pools. His large hands grip at my upper-arms and his attention focuses purely on me.

I vaguely feel my heartbeat slow down.

"Mags is letting me off for a bit because I have an appointment in an hour." My lip curls up in distaste as I watch Finnick's eyebrows furrow slightly. "I don't want to leave my tributes but there's not much left to do tonight and Mags knows I want to see you before I go."

A smile tweaks at my lips. "You do?"

Finnick raises an eyebrow. "You don't?"

My reply of, "Of course I do!" is a little _too_ quick and a little _too_ urgent; Finnick wears a widening, cocky grin the second it pours out from me. I inwardly sigh at my desperation and mutter, "Okay, yeah," after a second of feeling flustered. Then, hastily remembering I have a duty, I shake my head and glance at my tributes. "Oh, wait. I can't. I-"

"It's okay," Logan interjects weakly. I notice the large bags under his eyes. "We're just going to eat something then head to bed. Right, Fiona?"

Fiona nods meekly, casting a shy glance at Finnick who waves at her and grins. A hot blush smothers her cheeks and I squash a smile down because, _dammit_, I did not just think of Finnick Odair as _adorable_. "Yes," Fiona mumbles. "Right."

"Then that settles it!" Finnick bends in close to me so I'm only a centimetre from touching his lips. My tongue darts out and wets my own, nervously. I can feel my pulse thumping in my wrists ecstatically so I grind my fingers together in some form of restraint. It barely works. "You and me, for an hour, starting from now."

I nod. It's a subconscious action and one I barely have control over but, before I know it, Finnick's large, warm hand had enveloped mine and I'm being tugged away from everyone after I've said a quick goodbye and goodnight. I can't find it in me to care much for what I'm saying, however, as Finnick's hand is so reassuring in mine that I find myself focused on the heat it channels into me. It's like a beacon of strength.

How can one little touch affect me to such an extent?

"Where are we going?" I ask. I blindly let Finnick tug me into a lift.

His smile is quick, quirky and filled with amusement. "The roof, of course." Finnick sways towards me so his lips brush softly over the barrel of my ear and he says, satisfied when he hears my sharp intake of breath, "It's more... _intimate_."

I step away, abruptly. There's a light blush on my cheeks and I clear my throat to shake off my daze. Finnick is grinning. "I think this is intimate enough," I mumble, yet I don't say anything more as the lift climbs floor after floor.

The atmosphere isn't thick or awkward. It's _there_ and it's touchable but in a warm, pleasant way, as opposed to a hard and cold way. In fact, it makes me want to step closer to Finnick, which annoys me immensely. I'm not sure why or even how it irks me, yet I have to swallow down the frown that wants to force itself onto my face. Instead, I simply ignore the urge to be closer to Finnick and focus on Peeta. Peeta, who I have neglected thinking of. Peeta, who loved me and made sure I was safe. Peeta, who I watched die. Peeta, the boy with the bread.

My guilt crushes me again.

"Are you all right, Katniss?" Finnick asks softly. He's staring down at me. His eyebrows are slightly furrowed which crinkles the skin around his eyes a little and his mouth is pressed into a titled, curious smile. His skin in golden and clear, which brings out the shiny, crystal appearance of his eyes - eyes which search my face, hiding their concern.

I blink myself from my thoughts, rapidly. Then I nod. "Yes," I say, a little stiffly. "I'm-"

It's the doors opening that stops me speaking; because it, the roof, is exactly like I remember.

Capitol city looks bright and metallic, even under the canopy of the growing night sky. It's silhouette is luminescent under the incandescent stars, which are strung together like a translucent net of beads. A breeze brushes softly over my face and tangles into my hair. My head, by it's own accord, tips backwards to stare up into the eternal night and something hard lodges into my throat as it does so. My slow, shallow breaths brush over my parted lips.

How many hours did I spend up here with Peeta? How many times did we sit here and stare out at everything, wondering if it was one of the final everythings we were ever going to see? It seems so far away - like it happened in another lifetime; like he was part of another lifetime. It was only a year ago. It was only a year ago that we had sat opposite of each other on this roof and shared our deepest thoughts and feelings, which were hidden from everyone except from each other. What did we have to lose? We thought we were going to die.

Peeta knew he was going to die.

Suddenly, I feel tears spring to my eyes. At some point I had ended up next to _our_ spot; the spot we had sat at in silence, sometimes, just focusing on breathing; because when you're going to die, you appreciate the small things like the drawing of each breath, the feeling of the oxygen filling your lungs, or how you go dizzy if you hold it for too long - because that's _life. _It's _living_. Something Peeta is never going to experience again.

Not since I watched him die.

"I could have loved him," I whisper to myself, blinking back heavy tears. "Maybe I already did."

I wonder how true that is - if I truly did love Peeta Mellark. Probably, it is a lie. I would have had mercy if I loved him; I would have shot him, in the heart, to spare him the agony of being ripped apart by those monsters. Yet I didn't.

And wasn't that because I couldn't bare to kill Peeta? Because I loved him?

Something warm envelops me, suddenly, and I bury myself into it without a care. The tears sting at my eyes and rip at my heart; I can feel them ebbing through my veins like a sadness that will always stay with me, and my arms furiously wrap around the warmth surrounding me and i breathe in the scent of sea and sugar and care.

_Finnick._

"It's okay to be confused," he mumbles, holding me tighter. "I'm sorry that I didn't realise-"

"No!" I close my eyes and focus on keeping a handle on my emotions. "It's not your fault. You didn't know I came up here with him. I didn't know I'd have such a strong reaction..." The melancholy echos in my mind, rebounding off my skull like thrown pebbles. "I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_. It's not your fault. It's mine. I didn't save him; I didn't kill him; I didn't-"

Finnick pulls back from me and as he does I press my fingers into my eyes, willing the tears to leave. _You're not wanted_. _You're weakness. Leave._ "It's not your fault," he says, fiercely. "You couldn't save him, Katniss."

"But I-"

Finnick cuts me off. "No!" he says, and sits me down on the wall.

The tears in my eyes somehow grow stronger as I realise I am sat in our spot.

"No, Katniss." His voice is much softer, now, and his breath brushes over my face. I look up from my lap like I am not Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire, and I am instead someone like Fiona who is shy and vulnerable. Finnick is crouched down in front of me with his hands on my thighs but his eyes are gazing at me, strong and sure and sorrowful, as he says, "You didn't kill him. It's not your fault."

I don't even let one tear fall. "How do you do it?" My voice is hoarse and quiet, and hitches slightly on a silent sob. "How do you deal with having lost Annie?"

Finnick flinches like I've slapped him and suddenly, he seems weighed down with grief. He stares off out into the sky with glazed-over eyes then, abruptly, the looks fades and his eyes flicker back to me. "It gets easier," he says after a moment. His voice is quiet, too. Soft. "It never leaves you. It will always be there, rotting inside of you - but it will get easier and it will hurt less." His hands squeeze my thighs in a sort of desperate reassurance. "I promise you."

"You loved her," I say, staring at him. "Didn't you?"

There's a few seconds of hesitance before he nods ever so slightly. "I don't think I had ever loved someone as much as I loved her." The distance is back in his expression. "The Games, though... They ruined her. She was Annie and she was mine, as much as I could wish, but there would be times where she'd panic or fluster and she'd all but disappear. I used to have to calm her down." A soft, loving smile suddenly pulls at his lips and I find myself drawn in by it, entranced. That smile looks so right on him that it makes it harder for me to breathe. "I was the only one that could calm her down."

"I think I loved him," I say into the following silence. My tears have since dried up but there's an emptiness in my chest that wont go. "He loved me."

Finnick's eyes are cool and curious as he looks at me but something shines in their depths like a hot, blazing campfire. "And now?" he asks, as if prompting me.

"And..." My throat feels like sandpaper. I can barely force the words out through my teeth. "And now I'm with Gale."

There's a milisecond - only a millisecond - where a look of pure shock and regret crumples Finnick's face and even, I think, a stab of sadness - but it's only for a fraction of a second and if you blinked, you would have missed it; he covers it, impossibly quickly. Yet I did not blink and so I saw it; and for some reason, it makes my gut ache terribly.

"Gale?" he asks, picking up one half of his mouth in a lop-sided smirk. "How did that happen?"

The knife in my gut twists. "He told me he loves me." It's thrashes. "He got upset and angry when I told him I didn't know how I felt. He left. I chased him."

"And you told him you love him."

I nod, guiltily. The knife bashes the guilt around inside of me so it infects every inch of my body with it's poisonous stench. "Yes."

Finnick stares at me, stoically. "Why do you look like you regret that?"

"Because I-" _lied; because I might still love Peeta; because I feel guilty about being with Gale so shortly after Peeta died; because whenever I'm with Gale, all I'm thinking about is being with you. _"Because I think I said it so he wouldn't leave me."

"Well, I doubt you need to worry about him leaving you, girl on fire," Finnick replies. He speaks in an almost casual, almost amused tone but I can hear the subtext and the emotion written underneath - even if I can't understand it. "If he loves you, he wont leave you. It's better to be with the person you love and without their affection, then without both at all."

His sugary breath is still fogging over me like gentle rolls of the sea. His eyes look like the depths of an alluring sea-green ocean - and one I would very much like to swim in. He makes me warm, I realise, and he clears my thoughts. He helps me understand. He helps me breathe.

"You're better than him at this," I say suddenly, still deep in thought. "Than Gale. Maybe even better than Peeta but that's because we were on different wavelengths. You and I, we're on the same. You make it easier to breathe."

He smiles and cocks an eyebrow. "Wavelengths?"

"Peeta could afford to keep himself intact before the Games," I say. I pause, staring at Finnick indecisively. "We changed. We killed. We acted out things we may or may not have felt and did things to we didn't believe in to gain sponsors. Peeta never did any of that. He was always honest."

"He didn't want to be another piece of their Games," Finnick says, thoughtfully. He frowns. "I couldn't afford to do that."

Even though his words strike me deep in the chest because Finnick just said, precisely, what Peeta had said a year ago, I only agree, "I couldn't, either. And I can't now."

"None of us can. Not when we're at appointments or we're talking to the Capitol people, or even if only our arm is on camera." Finnick suddenly glances to his watch and looks away from me. I watch a mask of control and deceit settle on his face and I know that it's time. That he's got to go and give himself to someone who is either madly in love with him, or madly in lust with him. "I've got to go," he says. He gets to his feet pushes himself to his feet and turns - and then, he hesitates.

I look up. He looks back at me. Then, bending over, he whispers softly against my lips, "I'm glad I make you breathe, Katniss," and he kisses me tenderly, like I'm snow in the sun.

Then he walks away and doesn't look back.


	14. The Hungry Fourteen

**You guys are simply brilliant. Honestly, you're reviews last chapter had me smiling so much I could burst! Thank you. I'm so glad you're enjoying this. :)**

**For those that asked: I will not tell you whether Finnick and Katniss end up together in the end because I have a few endings which I've been considering. However, I will tell you *SPOILER* that, yes, Katniss and Finnick will have a relationship in this story.**

* * *

Breakfast is quiet.

Haymitch and I run over a training regime with Logan and Fiona, asking if they want to be trained separately, what they're good at, that sort of thing. They are very adamant about training together and, as expected, they have no experience. After that, it's all but silent. There's only the sound forks scarping on plates, the odd deep breath or heavy sigh, and the grinding of people's teeth. It makes me fidget.

"So, Finnick," Haymitch finally says, probably to break the silence. Mornings is the one time in the day he isn't drunk - apart from the odd occasion. "You two looked cosy yesterday."

My hash brown has been desecrated on my plate. I push the crumbs around and shrug. I wonder if it looks as nonchalant as it felt. "We're friends," I say. Somehow, our conversation just seems to make the silence heavier. "Friends are cosy."

Haymitch snorts. His fork clatters against the plate. "Not when the friends have slept together, sweetheart."

All the noise cuts off. I can feel all of them staring at me - Logan, Fiona, Cinna, Haymitch and especially Effie. Oh, God. Effie. "_What_?" she says, glancing at Haymitch but then looking sharply back at me. "Katniss? You... _slept_ with Finnick?!"

Logan chokes briefly on his food then coughs, and swallows it. He is grinning and shaking his head whilst Fiona, who is now a beetroot, stares determinedly at her half-eaten jam on toast. Cinna on the other head is frowning at Haymitch and I briefly wish he'd pummel him with a loaf of bread, before I realise that Effie is still gawking at me and looking so scandalised that I can do nothing but sigh.

"Yes, Effie," I mutter hopelessly. I shoot at dark look to Haymitch who lifts his whisky up in a toast, then chugs it down. "I slept with Finnick."

Effie fans herself with her hand. Her nails are so long that they seem to slow her down, as if the air is getting caught up in them. "Do you realise what would happen if the Capitol found out?!" she asks in a voice which is several octaves higher than usual. "Why, they're in love with the man! It'd be an outrage!"

"Why?" Logan speaks up. "Hasn't he already slept with half of them already?"

_That's what people will say about me. That's what they'll all say about me._

Suddenly, my gut is aching. I can taste a resentment aimed mostly towards myself poisoning my mind like the lingering taste of black coffee - bitter and tainted - but there's also some anger towards Logan, no matter how much I wish it wasn't there. Finnick has only slept with half of the Capitol because he is a prisoner! He is being emotionally blackmailed! God, it makes me sick how they can just get away with this. How they can make us, all of us Victors, feel so dirty and weak - as if we are complete and utter _dirt_ - whilst the rest of Panem looks on in disgust, talking about how promiscuous and how horrid we are.

And yet I hear them talk about Finnick like he is a piece of meat they would not reject if it hopped on to their plates. They'll be saying that, as well, about me, too.

Haymitch's look grows dark. "Don't talk about things you can't understand," he says gruffly, looking disgruntled. "Especially not when it's about Finnick."

I smile feebly at him and say to Logan, "He has, Logan. You're right," and I leave it like that because he cannot know; if he knows, maybe it'll spread and everyone will know Finnick Odair gives himself to people out of force and then everyone will know that everything they've heard about him, everyone he's slept with- No, wait. None of that matters.

What matters is that if anyone finds out about Snow's blackmail, Finnick's family will die.

A pang of hurt and worry and longing pulses through me and after a brief session of fretting about Finnick and his family, I find myself thinking of my _own._ About what will happen to them if anyone finds out that I'm being blackmailed, or what they'll say if words gets out that I've been-

I abruptly sever that chain of thought because they _will_ find out that I've been sleeping with many Capitol people. it is inevitable; they found out Finnick was and who am I, really? He's sea-green eyes and I'm the girl on fire. Word is bound to get out. Gale will hate me and he'll shout at me and my mother will be so disappointed whilst Prim, little Prim, will be staring at me all lost and confused because I'm Katniss, I'm her sister, and she thought she knew me better than that.

I suddenly feel very flushed. "Is it hot in here?" I ask, pushing some hair from my face. I look around the room and fan myself; "I'm really hot." And dizzy. I'm really quite dizzy.

"It's not hot in here," Effie says, tilting her head at me. "It's very cool. My, Claudius Templesmith was just saying this morning that it may _rain!_ What a trag-"

She fades out in my ears. I can feel my pulse hammering through me and my hands, waving about slowly in front of me, look sluggish and blurred. My eyes blink heavily.

And then I realise I'm barely breathing.

"Katniss, look at me." Cinna is holding my hand, crouched nervously next to me. "Katniss, _Katniss_, look at me."

I do. My hand cradles my forehead. Darkness starts to crowd the corner of my eyes. "Th-they'll know!" I rasp desperately, gripping Cinna's hand so tightly I'm afraid I'll draw blood with my nails. "Gale and Prim and my mother! They'll know I've been-"

"No." Cinna says the word quietly, yet firmly, and I find myself having to blink rapidly to stop my vision from blackening. "No, Katniss. They wont know. I promise. They wont."

I say nothing. I focus on the rabid lions which are stampeding throughout me and the elephants stomping in my ears; I focus on the rush of my pulse through my body and the taste of fear and resentment burning my tongue. God, I hate Snow. God, I hate _myself. _How could I ever have gotten into this mess? Should I not have just died in the arena? Should I not have just saved myself this effort? Saved myself to god-for-saken _challenge_ of trying to remain positive and happy whilst walking around in a body which is not truly living and keep doing deeds I despise?

Is this truly what my life _is?_

"Dammit! Call Finnick, Effie!"

"Haymitch Abernathy, you _will not take that tone-"_

"Call Finnick for Christ's sake!"

"Katniss?" Cinna's voice is a ghost in front of me. "Katniss! Come on, talk to me."

Everything is moving in fast-forward and rewind at the same time. Nausea swirls deep within me, dancing with my skeletons. "Cinna!" My voice sounds breathless and scratchy, so much so that it worries me further.

"Okay, calm down. Deep breaths. It's okay. Finnick's-

"_Katniss._"

My head snaps up. My eyes meet two pools of green sea. "Finnick!" I cry. There are tears crawling down my cheeks. Since when? I don't cry. Not really. "I'm-"

My vision goes completely black. I hear nothing for a moment and then it fades in and out like a dream; it's as if I'm back in the arena and I've just blown up the Career's booby-traps, and I'm so disorientated I wobble and fall-

"I've got you, girl on fire." I'm suspended in the air. Something strong and warm presses up against me and the scent of sugar and mint brushes against my face. I take a deep gulp of air, needing more and more of it; it centres me; it calms me; it completes me.

"Put her down on the sofa."

"No. Let me-"

"Sir, I said-"

"I don't really care what you said. Katniss is now breathing. Okay? Let me handle it."

"But sir-"

The conversation comes to an abrupt end when my hand tightens into a fist against Finnick's shirt. "They'll know," I say, as if in explanation. I stare up at him in my blurry vision but his eyes are clear to me, as clear as day, and I take comfort in the fact.

Another deep breath.

Finnick smiles softly. I watch understanding pool in his eyes. "I know," he says. "I'm sorry."

Everything suddenly becomes brighter. I can feel my hands and my feet again - see properly, even though the edges of my vision is dark - and I can hear my pulse calming in my veins, feel the tenseness withdraw from my body.

I breathe out a long, drawn breath. Then I breathe one in.

Suddenly I'm very, very embarrassed. One: because I just had a complete break down and that is as pathetic as it is uncharacteristic of me. Two: because everyone saw me break down and only Finnick was able to help me. And three: because I am sat in Finnick's lap and he wont let me move.

"Better not," he says. He grins apologetically. "I don't want to risk anything. Besides, it'll hurt my ego. It's not everyday the girl on fire sits in your lap, you know."

I scoff. "With you? It seems it."

Finnick chuckles and the sounds lifts me up, coaxing me further into reality. I find myself relaxing in his hold and so I focus on taking deep, calming breaths, even though everything in me seems to writhe in disorientation, and my head feels like a balloon. "I'm sorry for freaking out," I say. I frown. "It's so stupid..."

"I told you, girl on fire..." Finnick leans in close to me and, with a smirk that's weirdly sympathetic, he says, "this kind of stuff is hard. It takes a two or three years to adapt - and even then, you're never okay with it. I used to crack all the time at first."

I ignore my instinct to pull him closer. "And now?" I ask softly.

He grins this time. A full-blown, joy-of-the-earth, toothy _smile._ "I call my clients weasels and try to forget."

My laugh is so loud that I find myself wondering if I'm bipolar; going from a break down to a booming, genuine laugh is not something usual people do. I guess I'm not a usual person, though. "Weasels!? Le'Bron's a weasel."

"The plum-impersonator?" Finnick shakes his head and grins again. "He's more like a strangled Smurf."

I laugh again. I laugh even harder when Finnick does an impression for what looks to be a crippled Smurf. And then, when our laughter dies down and silence is left in it's wake, I finally realise Logan, Fiona, Cinna, Haymitch and Effie are all gawking at us.

Haymitch is the one to break the silence with his big, drunken mouth. Again. "Jesus, sweetheart. If you want back in his bed just say the word."

Effie cries, "_Haymitch!_" in disbelief whilst I blush a furious red and scooch further away from Finnick on the sofa. Finnick swallows his choked chuckles.

"Yeah, girl on fire." Finnick makes a point of practically sitting on me before he leans his close and whispers in my ear, "Say the word."

I push him away, turning a brighter shade of red. "No, thanks," I say to his offer. "I'd love a lighter, though. If you have one."

He raises an eyebrow. "You smoke?"

"No." I look hard at Haymitch as I say, "but alcohol and open flames don't get on at all."

* * *

Logan and Fiona disappear to the training room at eleven, which is when Haymitch gives me the letter. "From Snow," is all he says, and then he leaves me to re-group with Finnick in Capitol city, at the renowned Hunger Games (nudist) fountain. It doesn't take me long to get there but, as I arrive, I realise I'm a little early. So I sit down and I wait.

People of all colours, shapes, and surgeries give me looks of lust, admiration and adoration and quite a lot even talk to me, ask me for autographs, tell me how amazing I am - that sort of thing. It gets on my nerves so much that I have to force back a scowl - and then, suddenly, there's a huge commotion. Coming from the right.

Immediately, I know it's Finnick.

All around him, women and even some men swamp him, swooning and shouting his name, clutching at his clothes and skin and anything they can touch. He signs whatever they throw at him coolly, brushes off people's hard-baring hands, keeps strolling through the masses like he's some sort of God and can part them with just a look.

I find it ironic that he can.

When he sees me and grins, there is a synchronous swoon and everyone stares at him in awe. He really is the most undeniably stunning man I've ever seen. e's so sensual. It's kind of funny, me thinking that, because before I never thought I'd be attracted to him. I thought he was too easy to get - or maybe it was that he was just too easy to lose - but the second I found out those queries or pretences were built on the foundation of behaviour performed because of blackmail, then it was like he became instantly irresistible to me. Which is why I didn't push him away on the roof last night, when he kissed me. And maybe because I trust Finnick and love Finnick - as a friend, I mean. Of course I mean as a friend. I have Gale, obviously. I don't need Finnick.

Finnick who? What kiss? None of it even exists.

"Katniss!" Finnick calls. He grins broadly again and walks over to me without his sycophants trailing after him; they stare at the two of us in awe: 'The girl on fire and sea-green eyes are _sitting together!'_ "How are you?"

Gale suddenly evaporates from my mind. "I'm okay now," I reply, smiling at him. Warmth trails from his body over to me like the tips of trailing fingers. "Thanks for that."

He shakes his head. His eyes glint. "I'm just glad I got there in time to calm you down," he admits. "I was worried."

"About me passing out?" The idea's flattering but passing out isn't that big of a deal. I couldn't _die_ because of it, after all - I mean, unless I hit my head really hard or fell into a fire or off a building or something. Still, considering the circumstances, that was not even plausible. They were worrying needlessly.

Finnick rolls his eyes. "No, girl on fire." Again, for the umpteenth time since I've known him, Finnick Odair swoops down, captures my eyes with his in an endless gaze, and whispers so his sugary breath washes over my face, "I was worried that you weren't coping as well as I hoped."

The well in my mouth runs dry. My voice is hoarse as I say, "Oh," and I clear my throat, looking away from his eyes.

He forces me to meet his gaze again. Even as he speaks, Finnick keeps his hand locked tenderly around my chin. "Are you, Katniss?" he asks. "Coping?"

I nod slowly after considering his question. "Yes," I say. "This morning was just because I... I didn't realise before that Gale and my family would eventually find out. I always thought I'd keep it a secret."

"And you realised that's not possible." Finnick nods, thoughtfully. "Yeah, when I figured that out I broke my hand in the gym." He grins sheepishly. "I was spearing this dummy with my trident and eventually I just got so angry that I started punching it. The instructor was just staring at me, even when he realised I broke my hand. It was like everyone was saying, 'Oh, by all means, cripple yourself.'"

I laugh. "I get that in the shower when I practically drown in it. I'm in there for like an hour or more sometimes so, when it's really wet, I slip over. The other month I hit my head and almost drowned because I was showering in the bath."

Finnick Odair grins widely. "By all means," he says, "drown yourself."

It's not as funny when it's in relation to suicide. It makes me think of Annie. Finnick must realise this, too, because he clears his throat and nods at the unopened envelope in my hands. "Is that from Snow?" he asks.

I nod. My wandering fingers start to pull at the opening and I sigh before pulling out the letter. I show it to Finnick. "I'll be in Mr. Ingot's company on 17, Boulevard street at 12:00 o'clock. That's in twenty minutes, right?"

Finnick nods. "I have one, too. On that street, actually - except in a hotel." He snorts. "It's with Mrs. Ingot. His wife."

People are being unfaithful just to... to be with us? I didn't think I could despise myself, Snow, or this job any more than I do but _dammit_, my hatred just increased tenfold. In District 12, adultery is practically a taboo! "Want to walk with me?" I suggest weakly. "We've got to be there soon anyway."

"Oh, girl on fire." Finnick chuckles seductively in my ear. I hadn't realised how close he had gotten. "I'll do _anything_ with you."

* * *

**Okay, I promise the next few chapters wont be Katniss having a freak out and they wont be depressing - or, they wont be focused on being depressing, anyway.  
I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I'll try to make the next more interesting.**

**(Oh, and about some references like the Smurfs: I put them in there because I don't believe they are clueless about human life on earth before Panem. I kind of think it would be foolish if they were ignorant of it all.)**


	15. The Hungry Fifteen

**Hello everyone! In case you haven't seen it, I have a new story that I have really planned out and have huge hopes for. It is another Katniss/Finnick one so you guys should really like it and, with it, there is more to the story line than meets the eye. ;)**

**Anyway, here's the link**: s/9446916/1/All-Over-Again-KatnissxFinnick **Thanks so much if you read, comment or follow it (and this story, too!) Your support so far (and especially recently) with this story has been overwhelming. Seriously, some of you are comparing my work to Suzanne's which is just... insane. No way am I up to that standard yet but I hope, one day, I will be.**

**Thank you so much for everything! You're so amazing.**

* * *

The next few days pass quickly.

My routine is as simple as it was during my own Games: get up, eat breakfast, see the tributes off to training, see Finnick or go to an appointment whilst the tributes are in training, meet tributes, eat, train tributes, eat, perhaps see Finnick or a client again, and sleep. It's so simple and mundane that I get bored of it, although it's burned into the back of my mind; the only thing I relish, in fact, is seeing Finnick. Finnick makes it all worth while; he makes it all disappear.

Today, however, I'm not sure.

Today is the judgement day. The day the tributes get called into the training room, one at a time, and are judged on whatever skills they have. Thing is, though, Logan and Fiona don't _have_ any skills; sure, Logan's gotten pretty handy with a knife and he's pretty good at disarming, and Fiona can tell poisonous plants from safe ones _and_ she can fire an arrow pretty decently - but that's it. _Pretty_ handy. _Pretty_ decent. It's not good enough to get them high marks - but maybe it's good enough to get them a middle mark.

I exhale slowly and look to Finnick; it's an hour before everyone else wakes up but I have an appointment during our usual time so we agreed to meet each other now. It's like the thought of going a whole day without him is unbearable; he's all that's keeping me sane. He's all that's keeping me from doing something I'll regret, or breaking down into something that isn't me. Not really.

In fact, Finnick Odair has grown to be so important to me that I barely feel guilty about it. Not anymore. Gale just has to grow and learn to accept the fact that I need Finnick in my life; that, or I'll have to choose.

And I'm not sure it would be as hard as I think.

"Finnick," I say, looking him over. Just staring at him and his crystalline eyes, smooth skin and sweeping bronze hair elates me; he's just become so familiar to me, now. Like home, or comfort. "I just wanted to..."

Finnick raises an eyebrow, looking fairly amused. "Wanted to tell me how handsome I am? How you have fallen head over heels for me? How lost you'd be without me?"

I shrug, though I shake my head. "No," I say. "Not the first two."

The amusement vanishes from him and a soft, warm smile paints itself on Finnick's face. It's such a rare sight, that smile - though recently I've been seeing it more and more. "And to think I was joking," he muses. Then, in complete sobriety, he meets me dead in the eye and says, "Honestly, Katniss, I'm not sure where I'd be without you, either."

His words make me go warm and tingly and I grin. "Just so we're on the same page," I say.

Finnick smirks like a naughty kid caught with their hands in the cookie jar and says, "So long as that page includes us having sex again, I'm in."

I flush red. I choke on air. I goggle at him, totally and utterly embarrassed. "W-What?!" I say. My cheeks feel like they're on fire and I can feel it swooping down to my neck.

With a chuckle, Finnick edges slowly towards me, closer and closer. I watch him apprehensively as his face draws nearer, so near I can make out the slight scar above his left eyebrow and the dark flecks in his eyes. His breath ghosts over my face like a gentle caress and his aroma, that constant salty taste and sugary aftermath, leaves me kind of breathless - not that I'd admit it, because this is Finnick Odair and Finnick has this kind of effect on everyone. He is seductive and sensual and smooth; more importantly, he's trained to be perfection. He's trained to have me stumbling over myself.

So I wont fall for it. No. Not again...

But then he's so close that his lips are just a centimeter from mine and I can feel his warmth and hear his heart and, I'm sure, he can hear mine which thumps harder now he's so close to me. I pin it on nerves but, dammit, my body is screaming for me to move forward and connect us. To feel again like we did the night we first met, when I was blown into a whole new world.

My eyes flicker to his lips. I gulp dryly, barely daring to move.

Finnick chuckles again, in a more breathy sense this time. I think he does it on purpose. In fact, I know he does, because the second the goosebumps rise on my arms the backs of his fingers trace them delicately as he smirks, never once leaving my eyes. "Interesting," he mutters, though I don't think it's very interesting at all. "Goosebumps. Again."

"I'm cold," I mutter stupidly.

He raises an eyebrow. "You're cold?" he asks, skeptically. "And it's not in any way because you might want our page to have a bit more..." He laughs softly again, all deep and husky. "Sexuality?"

The very word - the way he says it like it's a dirty sin or a something sensual and filled with desire - makes me bite my lip and I shake my head. "No," I say, keeping to my guns. "I'm cold."

Finnick only shrugs and pulls back. "Right," he agrees. "You're cold."

I can feel the loss of him like an ache inside of me. It writhes and pleads with me to move closer but I squash it like a bug; I have Gale, anyway. I can't be falling after Finnick when I have him; the guilt I thought had vanished resurfaces, stronger now than ever. I don't know _why_ because it's not like I love Finnick - like I'll _do_ anything with Finnick! I probably just feel all flustered around him because we're so close, him and I, so I'm getting muddled - or maybe it's because he's so seductive no matter what he does; he's meant to be, after all. He's Capitol's heartthrob.

I'll see Gale soon enough. It's fine. I can kiss _him_ and have him near me like I'm meant to, because he loves me and I - well, I... love him. It'll be the same.

_It wont._

Finnick suddenly grins at me. "Lesson number one," he starts. "Temptation."

My eyes narrow at him in confusion. I feel the corners of my lips curl down in protest and I ask, "You did that on purpose?"

He laughs. "Yes," he says. Finnick's mood suddenly plummets into guilt. His voice lowers. "You got a complaint."

"A complaint...?"

"From Mr. Ingot." Finnick glares hatefully for a second then shakes himself free. "About your... services."

I furrow my eyebrows, feeling dirty and wrong just thinking about it. Not only are my 'services' disgusting but that man, Mr. Ingot, was revolting. "I'm sorry that I didn't want to play his little games," I snap, venomously. "He was vile though. I wasn't going to do... that."

Finnick grabs my hand, shaking his head and looking contrite. "I know, I know. You mentioned something about him being gross." He raises an eyebrow but doesn't ask what as so wrong. _Good. He'll never know._ "He filed a complaint to Snow, though, Katniss. It's really bad. If you get three complaints..."

His voice trails off, dropping the end of the sentence into the suddenly taut atmosphere. I notice I'm holding my breath and let it out slowly, feeling rigid and nervous.

"If I get three complaints, he'll kill one of them. Hurt them at the very least." There it is again. The voice of a stranger, leaking from my mouth. "And what? You're..."

"He asked me to help you." Finnick Odair wets his lips, actually looking a little distressed for once in his life, though his posture and voice remains cool and controlled. "To teach you. To give you tips."

I resist the urge to scream. I resist the urge to grab the biggest knife or the sharpest arrow from the training room and plunge it in Snow's neck. I resist every natural, ferocious instinct I have in me. And instead I take a long, focused breath. "Okay," I say after a moment, letting my eyes flutter open. Finnick is gazing concernedly at me. "Fine."

"I'm sorry," he says.

I shrug. "It's for my family," I say. I look to my wrist, where the bracelet Primrose made for me sits tightly, plain and pretty against my pale olive skin. Before this, before I left for mentoring, she'd given it me when she said goodbye. I wonder if she knew how much of a reassurance and a help it would be in ensuing I get through this - my job. "I'm glad it's you, anyway," I continue after a moment of thought. "If it had to be anyone, I'm glad it's you."

* * *

I leave Finnick not long after that. I have a job here, in the Capitol, after all. It's a job I despise but with a price not one else can pay: the safety of my family. So, I oblige when my next client shoves me onto the bed. In fact, I try to comply like a submissive little Victor and do as I'm told.

He does not complain to Snow.

I find myself wondering if that's what they want: someone who follows every single thing asked of them without complaint or any funny looks. It probably is. I want to hit myself for being such an idiot and for even _thinking_ something I figured out months ago; of _course_ that's what they want. I just didn't want to face up to the reality; and, for a while, I didn't have to. I could get away with mediocre acting and barely following orders. Now, however, I've got one strike out of three on the board. That is one too many.

I'll have to submit, like it or not.

I meet Logan and Fiona with Haymitch and Effie just after twelve o'clock. We all sit and eat lunch whilst talking about what they did; Logan threw a few knifes and so forth, whilst Fiona played a rather daring game with the Gamemaker which involved her being given a selection of berries, and eating the words she thought were safe. She could have died but Capitol would have just brought her back; their medics are the best in the business and, besides, she didn't die. She ate all the safe berries and left all the dangerous. She even managed to fire an arrow or two, too, though fails to admit how well that worked out.

We sit in angst waiting for the scores. All of us crowd the TV in a nervous silence with the occasional comment here and there, whilst Cinna and I tell Fiona and Logan not to worry, that they probably did great, that no matter what, we'll be there for them and we'll help them. Then Caesar Flickerman is on screen and announcing the tribute's scores.

District 1 gets a nine and an eight; District 2 gets a ten and an eight; District 3 an eight and an eight; District 4 gets a 9 and a ten; District 5 gets a seven and an 8... It goes on and on with the average score being an eight, or maybe a seven, though someone does score a 6, until finally, it is District 12.

I glance at Logan, who is first. Fiona is squeezing his hand so hard that it looks white. I almost feel for him.

And then Caesar tell us Logan scored an eight.

For a moment, I am so overwhelmed with thoughts of_ Peeta this_ and_ Peeta that, _that I can't join in the brief celebration. Then, Cinna nudges me awake and I shake my head at his questioning eyes and say, "Good one, Logan. That's easy to work with."

Fiona scores a seven, which is unsurprising. She showed great survival skill but not much brutality, and the Capitol love brutality. Take my score, for example. I got that by shooting at the Gamemaker's pig.

See? Brutality.

Nevertheless, a seven is not the worst score there and it ensues that, if we pin a perfect personality on Fiona, she'll perhaps get a few sponsors. People like a pretty girl, an innocent girl - maybe...?

I pause in thought, suddenly, annoyed with myself. Since when did I turn into this? Since when was I thinking like Fiona is doll to decorate? I guess since I became a mentor. This is the sort of thing I'm meant to consider; it means I'm doing my job correctly, doesn't it? This sort of mentality helps my tributes to win and survive, right?

The celebration goes on as usual. I drink something pink and bubbly and rich that makes me go a bit lightheaded and I eat small cubes of grapefruit that an Avox brings us. I'm not sure why grapefruit; Logan soon tells us he's grown to love it since he's been here and, just like that, the curiosity has vanished.

Curiosity which was keeping me from thinking of them dying, Peeta dying, Rue dying... Just people. People dying.

How many deaths am I responsible for? No more, I hope. Not Logan's or Fiona's or... or anyone's. Dammit, do I hope I'm not responsible for any more deaths!

Hope never gets you anything, though. Mostly just disappointment.

I banish the thought as soon as it comes because, yes, sometimes hope can give you things - good things like drive or determination; the things hope is given to Logan and Fiona. So, I sleep thinking about that; thinking about the good things emotions can bring as well as the bad and trying to tell myself that, no matter what, nothing is ever black and white.

The next day is slow and tedious. Training Logan and Fiona in their personalities, whilst fairly entertaining, is tough work. Haymitch and I have to work them to the bone only to send them off to Effie, or the other way around, to work some more. I feel for them, I do - but they need their personalities. And by the end of the day, they are practically flawless.

Whilst Logan has gone for a bold, charming and humorous approach, Fiona has gone for the shy and kind type of personality; both are, in their own ways, likable. With the right questions and the right look, the two could be really very popular. We hope.

My thoughts and emotions, however, are jumbled today; my hope is not very accurate nor very strong because, as pathetic as it sounds, I miss Finnick. I never go a day without him and not once have I even looked at him today; it's taxing for me, to say the least, which makes me wonder what I actually am now. If I'm as pathetic as I'm starting to think I am.

I don't dwell on it. I just miss him, is all. I bet he misses me, too.

Like Gale's missing me. Like I miss Gale.

Without Finnick, my appointments would seem impossible, which is why I'm glad I do not have one today. Finnick is the one things that picks me up from the dirt before and after an appointment...

I'm not sure how well I would have coped without him.

* * *

**I was tired when I wrote this so the end kind of stumbles along a bit. Sorry, for that. I'll try edit it soon. Anyway, I hope you like the chapter! I decided to update today because you guys are just so fantastic in your support that I thought you deserved it.  
Thank you so much!**


	16. The Hungry Sixteen

**So, hello!**

**Normally I hate to sound depressing on an authors note and give you guys bad news but I feel my writing has been slipping a little and I just wanted to tell you why: I suffer with severe asthma and I previously suffered with severe depression for two or three years. Now, my asthma is controlled a lot better than before but I still get hospitalised from time-to-time, so sorry if I randomly disappear! As for my depression, I'm free of it but as of recent I have been having relapses. I don't know if you know the symptoms of depression but... Well... I'm not going to go into detail.**

**That's that, anyway! So I'm sorry about any bad work I may write or any short chapters. Regardless, I'm trying to remain positive. I found it helped before, even if it is the hardest thing to do when battling depression. Thank you for being so understanding. :)**

**On a much lighter note, thank you guys so much for all of your amazing support and for checking out my other story! As I said, I've got pretty solid ideas for it and a huge ending which I ****_hope_**** will be great? I don't know. Let's see.**

**Enjoy the chapter. And again, thank you! You never cease to make me smile :)**

* * *

Caesar Flickerman is one of the few people in the Capitol I don't despise.

Is it because he's one of the few people who hasn't tinted his skin or 'grown' incredibly long nails, eyelashes or whiskers? Probably not. I think it has more to do with the fact he is helpful; in every way he can, every year, he assists the tributes in looking good and gaining sponsors. He doesn't make fun of them, test them or make interviewing a nightmarish experience, as I'm sure is well within his rights, but instead he makes it seem... Not so bad. It's bad, of course. Horrifying. Unreal. Nerve-racking...

Still, though. Not so bad.

This year is no different. Caesar, who is now sporting purple hair and a white suit, beams his wide, blinding smile to the crowd who whoop and cheer as the lights turn up and a deep voice introduces him enthusiastically. He goes on to talk about the show and the Hunger Games and the tributes, which is when I glance at Logan and Fiona.

"Are you two okay?" I ask, feeling muddled for them. I still remember what it was like walking on that stage, myself. Like you were detached and you weren't really there and everything just... checked out. Or it did for me.

"I'm okay," Fiona says softly. She looks it, too. Especially in the marble pink dress she's been put into and the fairly short heels (I remember the training with Effie about heels. Pity smothers me as I realise Fiona had to go through the same thing). Her hair has been curled and she wears some light make-up, which makes her look pure.

Good. Pure is good. It matches her personality.

I look to Logan for his response. He only shrugs, which I guess ties together the whole look he has, what with him wearing a dark grey suit and silk tie. Cinna says he was aiming for a more charming, adult look. I don't really know what look he has. I guess it's charming. I guess not.

What do I know? I'm no designer. Not really.

"All right," I say, at a loss for words. "Just remember what we went over."

Haymitch snorts. "If they forget, I'll kill them myself," he says. He takes another swig of whisky and, suddenly, I feel furious at him. I feel furious at him because he's drinking at a time like this; I feel furious because of his lack of empathy, and sympathy; I feel furious because he's so bloody relatable and understandable that it drives me mad because _I don't want to end up like him_ but, by God, I know why he said that. I get it. He doesn't know what to say; he's already lost hope! In some ways, I'm worse than him. I'm _lying_. I'm making up words and sentences that I'm not sure I would ever say in my life just to hand out hope that I don't have.

So, instead of hitting him, I snatch the bottle away from him. "Shut up, Haytmich."

Effie and Cinna say nothing; she pretends like nothing's happened and goes on to talk to Fiona and Logan about how _amazing _they look and about the masses of food we'll be having tonight; whilst he only glances at me then looks at Haymitch.

The next few minutes consist of us standing in silence as we watch Caesar welcome Blade, the boy from District 1, to the stage. Effie starts blabbing all over the interview about how 'Blade' isn't his _real_ name but it's his nickname in his District and the Capitol thought it was much more exciting than his _real_ name. That's because the Capitol is all fake, though. They love fakery. You could be truthful to them and never once deceive them, and let them know you for who you are with all your faults and fears, and they can love you anyway. They don't, though. They fall in love with lies.

They fell in love with Peeta and I, after all.

_Was that really a lie?_

Hanging on to Peeta in the back of my head like I do mostly, nowadays, out of fear of losing him again and being ridden with guilt, I try zone back into the conversation. The girl from District 2 is on, now. Effie talks over her interview, too.

Long story short, we hear none of the interviews because of Effie Trinket and her mindless babbling. Well, none of the interviews except District 12, of course.

Once District 5 is over and done with and we are all trying desperately not to hit Effie with something, I feel it. Him. His warmth, his presence, his breath. It snakes around me and washes over me slowly so, at first when I inhale it softly, like it's an apparition that will just disappear, I believe I'm just imagining it because I miss him. Which makes me feel like an idiot again.

And then someone's lips are tickling the shell of my ear.

"Having fun, girl on fire?" His voice is deep and silken as usual. He lives to seduce, it seems.

I turn and face him. "Can't you just say hello to me?" I ask. "Just come up and look at me and say hello, instead of approach me from behind and make me self-conscious and whisper some sort of question in my ear. Is that all right?"

Finnick Odair grins. It's amused and small and toothy and it makes me shake my head at him. I smile though, too. "Probably, I could," he replies. "That goes against my whole character though, doesn't it?"

I laugh. "And the character is the whole point."

"Of course." His grin slowly slicks up into something bigger and naughtier - as if he's guilty of something. "I'm Finnick Odair. Finnick Odair doesn't just 'say hello' to people. I don't even just 'say hello' to my clients."

"What are those?" asks Logan before I can reply. We all look at him, somewhat confused. "Your clients, I mean. You and Katniss always talk about clients."

I frown. My stomach flips. "We don't," I say, looking back to Finnick. "We don't, do we?"

Finnick shakes his head. "I don't think so," he says. For a moment, whilst we're caught up in what to say to Logan and our confusion and, albeit, even some worry, it's lost on me how close we are. We are close, though. So close it's like our bodies are one.

"Yes you do," Logan persists. District 6's interviews pass by us, forgotten. "Don't they, Fiona? They always go on about clients and some sort of plum-impersonator, or something."

Fiona flushes red. "I - ah..."

Logan sighs and rolls his eyes; obviously, his twin's fascination over Finnick is not lost on him. I don't know how it could be lost, though, to be honest. She makes it so obvious with her wide-eyed stares and blushes and fumbling feet.

Finnick snickers suddenly and I look to him, curious. "Plum-impersonator," he supplies. That grin's back. "Smurf."

A grin perks up my lips as I shake my head. "I thought we were over that," I say.

"Apparently not." He raises an eyebrow suddenly, staring down hard at me. "When did we get over that, girl on fire? I don't remember agreeing to it."

"It's not something you agree with, it's just-"

"Jokes don't just _end!_" he says, outraged. Suddenly, his features drop into a mask of mutual indifference as he leans in close to me and whispers, softly, "Especially not my jokes, girl on fire. I'm magical."

A burst of laughter splits my lips before I can stop it. It shakes me to my core and, for a second, I'm not in the Capitol. I'm on the beach with Finnick in District 4 or hunting in the woods. Anywhere where I am truly happy. "Magical, huh? You're magical?"

Finnick chuckles deeply. "Of course," he says. "It was pretty magical that I got you into my bed, don't you think?"

I furiously flush red. I ignore Haymitch's chortles and how he, apparently, has gotten the whisky back. "Stop bringing that up!"

Finnick raises an eyebrow and looks down to his crotch. "It's not up," he says, smirking. "I have absolutely not idea what you're talking about."

"_Finnick!_" I'm in such a state I can't find my tongue. "I - what - _stop it!_"

He clicks his tongue. "That's not what you were saying that night," he says, then stops, backtracks, and continues, "Wait, no. I think you started begging me to stop on the third round..." His eyes narrow, as if in thought, and by now I'm so embarrassed my jaw is slack and I have no idea what to do. "Something about it being too intense, I believe - too _mind-blowing."_ Finnick chuckles at his own joke; I'm forced to think back to that night where he described us being together as mind-blowing and, when I teased him otherwise, he went on to prove me wrong again, and again, and again... "It's a shame I don't have mercy, isn't it, girl on fire?"

All right. _All right._ Fine! If he wants to play, I'll play. "Oh, I don't know, Finnick..." I bite down softly on my bottom lip and stare up at him through my eyelashes, being sure to press my hands against his chest as I lean in to him. It's then that the salt and sugar contrast of his aura captures me and, suddenly, I'm not playing a game. I'm not acting, not thinking, just _doing_. "In the end, it worked out pretty well that you didn't have mercy, didn't it?"

Finnick's eyes had been fixed sorely on my lips. As I speak, he pulls me closer and I notice his pupils have dilated. I feel my heart slow down. "Pretty well?" he asks. "Do I need to remind you that I'm not '_pretty_' or '_very_' anything, girl on fire?"

His hot breath sweeps over me like an embrace. I wet my lips in an act of nerves. "Oh, I don't know, Finnick Odair," I say. "I think pretty is _definitely _something you are."

He chuckles and as he does so, his brings his face closer to me - so close that our lips brush as he talks; so close I can see the dark flecks of gold dancing in his eyes. "Oh, I'm not just pretty, girl on fire..." His stubble scrapes softly against my check as he pushes his face forward, tenderly, to my ear. I bite back a gasp of surprise. "I'm _magical.__"_

Have I lost? I'm not sure. I think so. I can't talk, really. I can't move, either. I'm in a state where I am _pleading_ for him to either kiss me so hotly I can't breathe and I can't think and I forget everything, at least for a moment, or either move away so the flustered feelings will drop away and I'll regain some sort of control over my body, which will feel cold and empty without his touch.

As much as I hate it, I need him. I need Finnick like I've never needed someone before because he helps the pain disappear. He helps the world drop away and he helps me realise, beyond everything else, that no case is lost. That there is hope and life beyond ruins and tragedy.

That is something I thought only Peeta or Gale could do. It's not. Finnick can do it, too. And he can do it better.

Finnick, with a laugh, steps back and raises his eyebrows at me. "I win," he says cockily. I'm not sure if everyone's laughing but if they are, it's probably at my expression or my feelings or my complete and utter entrancement and shock. "Nicely played, girl on fire, but I think now you see why I'm the teacher and you're the student."

I open my mouth as if to say something but close it again, a little lost. My body slumps.

Haymitch is chuckling like he's an insane man on laughing gas with no tomorrow. "I think you broke her!" he wheezes out.

I scowl at him and snap, "I'm _fine_," but I mentally take a note to watch the amount of alcohol he's drinking. Has he been drinking more recently? I'm not sure.

Finnick smiles. Then, softly taking my hand in his though I feverishly want to snatch it back, he plants a kiss against it. "I'll see you later, girl on fire," he mumbles. Then he winks at Fiona and says goodbye to the group as a whole, and leaves.

"That was interesting," Logan says into the silence. He clears his throat. "I mean, I never thought someone could leash the girl on fire. That's what everyone says."

I frown heavily at Finnick's back, then turn dismissively from him and look to Logan. "No-one can," I say, and we watch the rest of the interviews in silence. It doesn't take long for District 11 to arrive and, before we know it, Logan is being called to wait by the stage by a tech-hand. We all wish him goodbye and wait for him to finish hugging Fiona like it's his last minutes with her.

"Good luck, Logan," she whispers.

He smiles at her. "You, too," he says. "You'll do great."

"Logan!" the tech-hand calls impatiently.

Logan sighs. "I'm coming!" he shouts back. He glances at me. "Look after her."

I nod. "Of course," I say.

Logan leaves not a moment later and arrives just on time for Caesar to call him to the stage. We all watch, eagerly, as Logan climbs up to meet Caesar and flashes a bright grin at the audience. They clap louder.

"Welcome to the show, Logan," Caesar says once they have settled down. "How are you feeling?"

Logan's smile widens. "I'm grand," he says. "It's hard not to be in a good mood when you're welcomed into a beautiful city by even more beautiful people."

From my peripheral vision, I watch Haymitch nod slightly in approval. First sentence in and there's no mistakes. That's better than how my first interview went; and the Capitolites seem to love it, too, because they clap like crazy as Caesar laughs.

"You like it here, do you?" he asks.

"Of course!" Logan gives Caesar an '_are-you-insane?'_ look and continues, "Did you not just hear what I just said? I think you've gone deaf, Caesar. Must be all the cheering." He looks to the crowd. "Though I bet such enthusiastic people could do better, still." The crowd roars in approval and starts clapping like mad. Logan grins charmingly at them. "That's exactly what I mean!"

"You said it!" Caesar nods, smiling brightly. "Though I hope that wasn't a bet, because I seem to have lost."

Logan taps his chin, as if deep in thought. Then, after a moment, he grins childishly and says, "Nah, you're okay. We'll just blame your deafness and keep this between us."

"Between us, eh?" Caesar laughs. "Now that does sound like a plan. Speaking of which, you were given an eight yesterday. Did you have some sort of plan when you got in there or was it on the spot?"

Logan grins. "I could tell you," he says. "Well, actually, I can't. They said so." He nods to the balcony, where Senecra Crane watches from. The camera briefly zooms in on him. "So, no, there wasn't a plan but I can't tell you what I did. I _can_ tell you, though, that it did not involve nudity."

The audience gasps and laughs. Caesar chuckles. "Why would we think it did?" he asks.

A smirk picks up on Logan's face. "Don't act innocent," he says, playfully. "I know how your minds work."

The audience goes a little crazier. Caesar is laughing again. "Well, we're here to get into _your_ mind, Logan," he says. Then, softly, he continues, "So, the reaping. You and your sister, Fiona, were reaped. What were you thinking in that moment?"

"Twin sister," Logan corrects, though his voice crackles slightly. He clears his throat. "She's my twin."

"I stand corrected." Caesar smiles sympathetically. "What were you thinking when your name was called and then, so was hers?"

Logan's eyebrows furrow. Suddenly, he is subdued, and as he speaks it looks like it's unconscious, as if he's in a dream-like state and is speaking subconsciously. "My first thought was that I was going to die," he says. "I knew that I could live but I also knew I could die. So, I embraced it. If I didn't, and I died, it would be worse, you know? So I accepted that I would probably die and then... Well, Fiona was reaped."

The audience is holding their breath. For a moment, I'm thrusted back into my interview as I spoke of Prim and, whilst they were different circumstances, I can't help but think... I can't help but compare us; Logan and I; Prim and Fiona. It's similar. Too similar. My interview and Logan's interview are far too similar...

Fiona nervously waves her goodbye as she is called up by the tech-hand. Which means Logan's time is coming to a close.

"The second I heard her name, that changed." Logan's fist tightens on the arm chair and he looks out to the audience. He isn't charming and cheeky and bold any more but he is strong and powerful and angry. Yet filled with despair. He is so, obviously sad... "The second I heard Fiona's name I _knew_ I was going to die. I knew I was going to die because I would die to protect her. I will. Somehow, I don't think she'll let me." The sadness suddenly disappears and Logan grins at the audience. "So, I guess it's every man for himself, if she wont let me help her. So, I'll just have to kill everyone. I'll kill them all and make sure she lives. Oh, and of course," he winks at the audience, "I couldn't live without you beautiful people. I suppose, if worst comes to worst-" we all know the 'worst' he is referring to is Fiona's death, and somehow that makes his worse heavier and hit home harder "-you lot are what I'll be fighting for."

The audience whoops and whistles. They clap so ferociously that we barely hear the buzzer signalling the end of his time but we do, and Caesar wishes him goodbye and the best of luck before calling Fiona to the stage.

She already looks teary-eyed and sick with nerves. I know we are all wondering if it will help her, or make her crumble.

"So, Fiona, welcome to the show."

Fiona smiles shakily, looking dainty in the large armchair. "Thank you for having me," she says.

"What manners." Caesar smiles kindly at her. "You seem quite a bit different from your twin."

"Logan?" Fiona shakes her head and simpers softly just at the thought of him. "He's just... Logan. There's no other word for him."

Caesar tries it out. "He's 'just Logan'... Yes, I think you're right there. We're not here to talk about him though, are we?"

Fiona shakes her head. "No, I suppose not. Do you -" she clears her throat because her voice is shaking so much. "I'm sorry. I'm just a little nervous."

"Nervous?" Caesar cocks his head. "Why are you nervous?"

She doesn't say something to flatter the audience, like Logan would, or even tell a little lie which may make her gain a sponsor or two. Instead, she says something that will make Logan gain a sponsor - or a lot. And it comes right from the heart. "I'm nervous for Logan," she admits quietly. "I told him all along that I wanted him to be the one to make it through. I couldn't live afterwards if he died; but he's still saying he's going to protect me..."

"And you don't want him to," Caesar says tenderly. Is that empathy I hear in his voice? "You want him to be the one to live."

Fiona nods. The tears flood her eyes. "More than anything," she whispers, "but he wont listen. Logan is all about everyone else and never about himself. Especially when it comes to me."

"So, if anything were to come out of the Games, what would you want it to be, Fiona? What would you want to take with you; to learn?"

"I'd want to learn something about Logan I never knew," she says. Her voice is so soft and filled with anguish that the whole audience are enraptured, staring at her through blurry eyes and heartbreak. "I'd want to learn that he could listen. That he could put himself before me, before others, for once in his life." The tears spill over and fall down her cheeks. She brushes them away. "I'd want to learn that Logan could do what's best for himself for once. I'd want to learn that he is strong enough to let me go and let go of this... this idea he has of protecting me; because afterwards, if he's dead, he can't protect me. And that's a just a big contradiction. So Caesar, if anything was to come out of the Games, I'd want it to be him. I'd want it to be Logan."

All her words, her carefully devised, softly-spoken words, take so long to get out of her and are spoken with such raw emotion that the buzzer sets off almost immediately after her speech. And Fiona is wished goodbye and good luck by Caeser, whilst the audience sit there, slack-jawed and weary, in total and utter silence.

A silence of heartbreak and respect.

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**I really hope this chapter was okay! My relapses are making me lose concentration and drive, so this was quite an effort to write, no matter how much I wanted or needed to. So, yeah. Sorry! xo**

**Oh! I was meant to ask: how much detail would you like about Fiona and Logan going into the Hunger Games? Would you like a passing comment, fair detail, a few scenes and such with Katniss' response (I was planning on doing this one), or would you prefer really in-depth Games so you know what's happening at all times? Thanks! xo**

**(Sorry for the insanely long author's note in this chapter. Wow.)**


	17. The Hungry Seventeen

**I'm sorry it took me this long to update! There's been a lot going on this week though. Thank you so much for all your reviews! They are incredible. _You're_ incredible. Thank you so much! Here's the chapter! :)**

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Our goodbyes to Logan and Fiona that night are short-lived. Mainly because they are both quiet and subdued, sticking to each other like they are glued together. I don't blame them. Tomorrow is the day they will be entered for the Hunger Games...

And only one comes out alive.

That's the thing with them. Both of them don't see the point in living if it's not with the other, so they are both trying to get the other one to live, to survive, to become the victor. Things don't work out like that though, do they? You have to wonder if they'll make it. If they'll win. I don't think they will. Logan might die trying to protect Fiona and she'll probably go crazy and try to kill herself. Or she'll hand herself over on a silver platter.

I don't bother thinking about how numb the idea makes me, and instead roll over restlessly in my bed.

Sleep is near impossible. No, actually, it _is_ impossible. It's like trying to fly when you have no wings; or trying to live when you have no cause. There's nothing _there_, nothing you can do. You can try, and you can fail. That's how sleeping is right now - it's only effort. Effort and failure. All because of the Hunger Games and the nightmares they leave, the dread they cause, the thoughts they stir. No doubt Fiona and Logan are awake now, too.

Haymitch probably passed out a while ago.

I keep thinking about their mother. Logan and Fiona's mother, I mean - in fact, I keep thinking about their whole family. If they have any brothers or sisters. If they have a dad or a mum. If that family is crying right now, or screaming or huddling together... or shutting down. I keep wondering what they're thinking and saying and doing; how I'd feel if I knew that I had two members of my family forced in the Hunger Games and knew with certainty, that one of them would have to die and the other could most likely follow, and it tears me up inside! What's worse is that I'm just empathising.

How they truly feel is probably one million times worse than how I imagine they feel.

Restlessly, I roll over again. I'm hot but the bed sheets are cool and crisp, and I feel like one-hundred stone is stacked on top of my body. Everything feel wrong. my eyes feel unsettled and ping open but the fatigue I can feel tugging at my eyes, pulling my face down to the pillow, fights on. It never settles - it never, finally, drifts off and lets me let it win - lets me _sleep..._ because whilst there's a battle, there will be fights.

I wonder how many fights are to be fought before the battle ceases?

The answer never comes to me. In a way, yes, it does - because the battle stops. I don't know how many fights there has been, though. I can feel myself drifting off into a deep and welcome sleep and just as it's warm, comforting embrace takes hold of me and I can feel my consciousness slowly drifting away-

"Katniss? Can I... talk to you?"

I suppress a scream and a groan and a cry and instead, roll onto my back and sit up. "Sure, Logan," I say, dejected and sleepy. I indicate to the end of my bed. "Take a seat."

He does. "I only wanted to say thanks."

I ignore the fact he's in the same sort of pajamas Peeta wore last year and, instead, furrow my eyebrows. "You wanted to thank me?" I ask. "Why?"

"For helping me - Fiona, too." Logan smiles a little sheepishly at me and shrugs. "Even though I knew you'd rather spend time with Finnick or something, and even though I wasn't technically your tribute and Fiona was, you helped me and her a lot. You listened and gave us advice you were always with us."

A smile tweaks at my lips but, at the same time, my concern grows. "Of course I wanted to help," I say. "I've been through it. I know what it's like. Even though I like spending time with Finnick, I'd never ditch you, your chance at victory and my responsibility for him. You do know that, right?"

Logan quickly nods. "Of course, I-" The smile grows even more sheepish - and wry, too. "I didn't mean it like that. I guess it came out wrong."

I shrug. "It's okay," I tell him, and smile to ease the atmosphere. There's a slight pause. "I helped you because Haymitch is always drunk. He's smart and he knows what he's talking about but... There are only so many Games he can take. I think he needed a break."

"So you gave him one."

It isn't a question but I nod anyway. "Yes. When you're in the arena he'll be helping out though, don't you worry."

Logan shakes his head. "I wasn't worrying," he says simply, and plunders us into silence again.

I take a moment to stare at him. To look and see if I can tell what he's feeling or understand why he's in here but I can't. Not really. Logan is pretty stoic and enigmatic. He can't afford to show emotion else he knows he'll lose something; he just doesn't know what. Which is exactly like Finnick and I, with the lies and the deceit and the threats... Logan has too much to lose if he shows emotion. Or maybe he has no emotion left to feel.

Suddenly, realisation slaps me around the face and I stare hard at Logan. He's not like this because of what'll he'll lose if he's not - he's like this because he's _going _to lose. He's prepared himself. He's in the mind-set of knowing that he's going to die.

"This is a goodbye," I state.

Logan looks me over, coolly. "Yes, Katniss," he says. "This is a goodbye. You'll look after Fiona, wont you?"

Even though I nod tightly, I say, "Of course. She wont let me look after her if you're not there, though."

"I know."

"She practically handed sponsors to you, too." My eyes flit around his face, checking out his expression. "She's doing everything in her power to make sure you win."

"I _know_, Katniss." Irritably, Logan runs a hand through his hair. He glances at me. "Just promise you'll try make her win, okay?"

My hand rubs at my eyes and my heart feels hollow. "I can't!" I push the words out, feeling helpless. "I'm sorry. She asked me to do the same thing to you. I said no. I've just got to play it by what happens in the arena."

Logan sighs heavily. Suddenly, he deflates and the emotion cracks his facade. There's anger and fear and desperation and sorrow and hopelessness and dou- "I knew she would," he says. "God, why is this happening to us? Do you know how hard this is?"_  
_

"I-"

"Fiona is like another part of me. She's like an extension of my soul, or something. If she dies then part of me - the best part of me - will die. What do I _do_ then?! How can I keep... I've just got to make sure she lives." His emotions look to be driving him insane. "I've got to keep her safe."_  
_

It suddenly occurs to me: "You understand that how she's feeling, too? You're both playing the same game for the same reason. You're just butting heads; neither of you can win. You can try and protect the other for as long as you wont but eventually, you'll fail. Both of you. Something will happen. This is tearing both of you apart!"

"I never thought about that... That she'd be feeling _this_, I mean."

When did I become a mother? Probably about the same time my dad died and my mum was only a shell. "Listen, Logan, this is killing both of you. How about you both just go into the arena and help each other out, not sabotage yourselves or..."

A sly smile pulls at Logan's lips - a real one. "Or manipulate the sponsors like Fiona did?"

I grin back at him. "Exactly," I reply. "Exactly."

There's a silence for a moment. We both get so lost in our own thoughts that when Logan breaks it, breaks the layer of calm that had settled over us like dust, it startles even him. "Do you know you're good at giving advice?" he asks.

Am I? I guess so. I've been doing it long enough, what with Primrose... "Thanks, Logan. You should hear Finnick, though." The smile that drops onto my face feels small and slight and otherworldly, but nice. "Finnick is just..."

"Madly in love with you?" Logan suggests. He grins slickly. "Yeah, I know that."

My blush is withering and red and sudden - and confused, too. Startled. "In love with me? That's ridiculous. He's not in love with me." I try to laugh it off but it's weak and pathetic and it fades into nothing, so I accept a feeble defeat.

"He is," Logan observes, still grinning cheekily. "And you're in love with him, too."

"I - _Logan-"_

Logan talks over me as if I'm not even speaking. "I don't blame you," he starts. "Word going around is that he's the best_-_" Logan raises two hands as inverted commas as he says, "-_'lover_' that Capitol has seen in a long time. Maybe I should get tips."

My blush is even more intense by now as I glare at Logan and I am, overall, embarrassed beyond belief. There is a mess of confusion, question, wonder, shock, distress, mortification and - even more muddling - _hope _poisoning my insides and I feel it slither around like a grotesque snake. "He doesn't love me," I say. I feel like I've swallowed spoonful of ash. "I don't love him, either."

Logan sighs and shakes his head, looking tired. "It's like dealing with a pair of five-year-olds in school!" he says, exasperated. The smirk is still tugging at his lips. "So, say you don't love him."

Sickness writhes in my gut. My heart thumps antagonistically inside of me. "I don't love him," I repeat. Why does it feel so wrong saying that? "I don't love him."

Logan goes to reply; with a little knowing glint in his eye his mouth opens and he almost gets a word out - but then, the door cracks open and there he is, Finnick Odair, sticking his head in.

"Hey," he says, looking a little concerned. "Is it okay if I join you?"

Something weird and wonderful floods my insides and I nod enthusiastically. "Sure, Finnick. Sit down."

Finnick, instead of sitting where I indicated at the end of my bed, saunters over to me and pushes me over to the other side of the bed. He ignores my protests and laughter and bewilderment and plonks himself down in _my _old place. This side of the bed is so cold in comparison.

"Hey!" I cry indignantly. "Finnick!"

Finnick looks at me, smirking. "Hi, Katniss," he says slowly. He feigns a look of concern. "Are you okay? We've already said all the introductions. Do you need to see a doctor?"

Logan butts in this time. "I think she's just flustered because you're sitting in her bed and it doesn't involve sex." I notice how hard he is trying to fight back his laughter and I resist the urge to punch him as the abashment inside of me _really_ makes itself known on my cheeks. "She was just saying about how much she loved it when you-"

"_Logan_!" How old is this guy? Fifteen? Dammit, I didn't realise he was so... was so... "No! We weren't saying that _at all._"

"Really?" Logan frowns. "I swear we were _just_ talking about how much you'd love to sleep with him again."

Oh, God. I think my face is deteriorating. I'm so speechless that I can actually feel my words _lost_ inside of me. They couldn't find themselves to my mouth with two hands, a map and a compass. "I - I-"

"Is that so, girl on fire?" Finnick asks. Sugar wafts over my face. He leans in so close to me that I can feel myself losing face and balance. He chuckles huskily, brushing the tips of his fingers up my thigh. "I knew you wanted me."

I slap his hands away. "Yeah," I say with narrowed eyes. "I want you locked up!" My glare is not in the least intimidating when paired with my awful blush.

Finnick's sly smirk only widens. "Bondage?" he asks. He raises an eyebrow. "The girl on fire really is feisty, huh?"

Logan finally lets loose a laugh. "Well, she's been snapping at me all night. She kept saying that she didn't love-"

"Caesar!" I rush out. "That I didn't love Caesar!"

My hard look at Logan has him shuffling to his feet. "Right," he agrees. "Caesar. I'm going to try and get some sleep now. Can I trust you two not to get too loud?"

Where's my bow when I need it? "Logan, I swear to God-"

"I know, I know!" Logan laughs again. "You don't love Caesar. You want me to go. I'm going."

We watch him walk to the door. I go to call out goodbye and good luck for tomorrow but before I can get the words out, he hesitates in grabbing the door handle and turns to meet me dead in the eyes. "By the way, Katniss," he says. His eyes burn so bright as they bore into me. "Repetition is a sign of denial. Just thought you should know."

The door closes with a final, soft click. I feel it echo inside of me as if I'm locking something away and turn my thoughts elsewhere; repetition? What is that supposed to mean? What did I repeat? I'm not in denial about anything... Am I?

I look over to Finnick and sigh. "You're in my space," I say.

He shrugs. "It's warm."

"Yeah, well it's cold over here, so-"

"Oh, quit moaning, girl on fire."

"_Moaning? _I-"

"Yes, _moaning._ I came up here to see you and to check if you're all right, not to get abused with words!"

I soften, suddenly. "Sorry," I mutter.

Finnick smirks. His hand brushes some hair from my eyes. I feel his heat radiate from the tips of his fingers and lean into him as he does the same, and his deep, sea-salt smell washes over me like a trance. "It's okay, girl on fire," he whispers, still grinning. "I know you only do it because you love me."

_Love me._ The words stab at my heart and I stare hard at him, suddenly, feeling tense and cold and unbearably worried. "What did you hear?" I ask.

He frowns at my sudden change. "Nothing, Katniss. What are you talking about?"

"Before you came and we were talking about Caesar-"

"I didn't hear anything." He smiles in concern. "Are you okay? What brought this on?"

I shake myself, feeling stupid about being unnerved. "Nothing, don't worry," I say. It goes completely against the bitter turmoil thrashing around inside of me but I ignore it, and focus my thoughts on only one thing: repetition.

_I don't love him_. That's what Logan meant. That's what I had repeated. _I don't love him._

* * *

**There we go! I hope you like it. I know I probably say this about all my chapters but for some reason, I hate this one. I think it's lacking something... Oh, I'm not sure. I hope you enjoyed it anyway! Sorry for the late update!**

**Also, after looking at what you guys said last chapter I'm going to have some extracts of what happens in the Games with Katniss' reaction to them. Basically, it will be more focused on the outside world. You'll see what I mean. Thank you for all your opinions and reviews! They really helped and they made me smile. :)**


	18. The Hungry Eighteen

**I'm so SO sorry about the (super) late update! Now I'm writing two stories and I've got to find balance but this week has been hectic! Really, really busy. And hot. So, I'm really sorry! Also, I wasn't planning on writing a huge author's note and what-not this chapter but some of you guys have brought up points I felt needed to be addressed. You might want some information on this too, so read on! :)**

**Firstly, I'm going to talk nicknames**!_ I believe it was __**Embracer**__ that mentioned about 'girl on fire' getting a bit stiff or tedious, so I'm going to do what I should maybe have done a while ago: explain it! Whilst I can understand the wish for a new name due to repetition and a want for creativity, I actually have reasons for continually making Finnick call Katniss this. The reasons are:_

_**Point A**__: She's called it from the get-go! In the books it's practically immediate that she is recognised by that name. So, by calling her this I'm securing her identity and linking my fan-book to the actual books. It's almost like a logo!_

_**Point B**__: It's Finnick's way of mocking the Capitol. Katniss is never just 'Katniss' to them, she is always the 'girl on fire!' It amuses Finnick to the extent he familiarises mockery, jokes and amusement with the nickname 'girl on fire'. He only calls her the 'girl on fire' when he is teasing or mocking her. It's like Katniss is split into two personalities. So, there's that._

_**Point C**__: It shows and reminds Finnick of her power. Katniss has her weak moments like he does, although he tends not to show his much, so when she's vulnerable Finnick is reminded that she will always be the girl on fire._

**_Point D_**_: Nicknames are complicated. There's a certain, very fine line which is drawn between acceptable and creepy (and sappy and gross!) It's hard to find the balance._

_There you have it! I could try to find and make up other nicknames if this 'girl on fire' change-up thing is of high-demand. You see that I have my reasons, though. :)_

**Another point someone brought up was Finnick showing some form of jealousy (and therefore anger) or vulnerability. **_I realise I haven't showed much of his vulnerability but trust me, it's there. I've only given you glimpses so far like that of Annie's suicide and his love for her. It's all to do with Katniss and Finnick's developing relationship; I'll soon start tearing Finnick's emotions apart a bit more, don't worry! I have a bunch of plans for him. I'm planning on jealousy, anger because of the stimuli for said jealousy, a bit more vulnerability, people pushing him to the limits, and some more insight to his (and Katniss') prostitution. I'll get there very soon, don't you worry! It's just something's got to happen before I do. ;)_

**Here's the chapter, anyway. I believe I say this EVERY DAMN CHAPTER but heh, I'm not fond of this one. Thanks for listening to me ramble anyway, and giving me all the amazing reviews and ideas you guys do - and you know what? Thanks for reading! Simply reading! I'm so grateful. Unbelievably so.**

**Enjoy! xox**

* * *

The morning of the 74th Hunger Games is not a pleasant one.

When I wake, it is because Effie bangs on to my door in a screeching flush, flustered that I am _"already ten minutes behind schedule!"_ I refrain from telling her that I am only late because Finnick Odair decided that he would stay up with me for most the night. Granted, neither he nor I could sleep, but my tardiness causes _Haymitch's_ tardiness to increase tenfold. I was supposed to be responsible for waking him up. Now, that plan's foiled, and Effie is forced to rush over to Haymitch's room and whip him out of bed.

"Get up," I mutter to Finnick, lightly jabbing him with my elbow. "Get up."

We had fallen asleep last night on top of the duvet, and are currently entangled with each other. My head lolls from his forearm as I try to twist myself into a readied position.

Finnick blinks down at me, looking tired and confused, and says, "What?"

"The Hunger Games, Finnick," I say. I try to smile and fail miserably. "We need to get started. We're already late."

With a heavy hand, Finnick rubs at the crease between his eyebrows and breathes in deeply, searching through bleary vision and using clumsy fingers to capture the bedside clock. He glances at the time and, instead of groaning about how he's sure ten minutes won't make a difference, he says, "Right you are."

Something seems off with him. Of course, it's because of the Hunger Games - I'd be an idiot not to think so or work it out! I'd be more concerned if he was his usual self on a day like this; I can barely find the effort to breathe, let alone anything else. So, we both roll out of bed in silence. We say goodbye using silence. And when I come out from the shower, he is gone.

When I finally make myself known, Effie hands me some 'to-go' breakfast and ushers both Haymitch and I out of the door. Haymitch ignores the fact that I look like hell and I, in turn, do the same. There's no point talking about it or dwelling on it because we both know _why_ we're like this; we both know that we look like this. It's inevitable. As a victor, seeing, hearing or even _knowing_ about the Hunger Games makes your skin crawl. Having to relive it - having to train kids to partake in your very own nightmares - is worse than anything we could imagine.

So we say nothing. I take a swig of whisky as he offers me it and tell him that he can't get drunk, to which he agrees, and before we know it we're in the Sponsor room.

It is empty at first, which is inevitable. Few mentors linger around, talking to and preparing themselves and each other. Although I recognise all of the victors, I immediately search for Finnick with my eyes and, when I find he's not there, I swallow down the brick of emotion that wedges itself uncomfortably inside of me. Haymitch glances at me.

"He's always late," he says, as if in explanation.

I don't wonder why Finnick is always late; I want to be late, too.

"Don't worry though, sweetheart, he'll be here soon."

For some reason, the fact Haymitch presumes I was looking for Finnick makes my insides bunch up; it's like everyone knows how dependent on him I am, now. Can you blame me, though? After everything my family have been through, everything I'm forced to keep from them, how my outlook on _everything_ has changed... No one but Finnick truly understands me. Not even Gale. "I wasn't looking for Finnick," I lie, feeling my insides squirm. "And I wasn't worrying."

With a snort, Haymitch swipes a glass of whisky from a passing-by waiter's tray. He barely glances at me as he says, "I'm _not_ getting drunk, sweetheart, don't worry!" as if he can feel my dark, concerned look. Then he broadly indicates to the room. "Let me show you 'round."

Normally, I'd think Haymitch showing me anywhere is weird because being helpful is not one of Haymitch Abernathy's many traits. Then he explains that Effie practically forced him into it, which makes me also realise that these are different circumstances and that sometimes, people change to fit the new shape. This new shape is one of awareness; awareness of the fact that _I have _no awareness; that I'm a little clueless and worried and down-right terrified I'm not going to be good enough for Logan and Fiona.

So, Haymitch is being helpful. Just for today.

At first, he doesn't take it very seriously. He introduces me to each individual buffet table -_every single one, _even if they're touching - shows me what walls are hollow or what window or picture he's fallen into previously, before he starts to take it more seriously and informs me of the purpose of the room; he calls the first of the two rooms, the big one, the 'shark room' because it's where all the rich Capitol people go who can, potentially, become a sponsor for your tribute _if_ you sway them in that direction. The second room is only a bit smaller with a huge control panel, which is divided into 12 for each district. Here, we mentors can watch our tributes and send down the gifts which we buy using the money sponsors donate. Haymitch shows me how it works then diverts my attention to behind me, where a huge screen has practically absorbed the wall, on which the Hunger Games will be played; our control stations, for each district, only lets us view cameras which are able to see our tributes as opposed to the whole Game and the other tributes.

For some reason, it makes me feel very uneasy. Like there are eyes constantly watching me - but isn't that how it always is in the Capitol?

Haymitch and I slink back into the main room, feeling uneasy. More mentors have arrived now and look at us as we enter, then back to whoever they're talking to in disinterest - except one. Finnick, as usual, grins broadly at me begins to wave me over, then suddenly he thinks better of it. He looks a little sheepish he says goodbye to the tall, intimidating looking woman he's talking to who I _think_ I recognise as Johanna Mason - but, in all honesty, it could be anyone. Just because we are sort of forced into watching the Games doesn't mean I_ watch _them - I don't focus on them. Not really. It lessens the devastation.

Well, it doesn't, I guess. It just makes it easier to ignore.

I try not to focus on how horrid that sounds; how horrid it sounds to say that I ignored the sadness of a weeping woman standing not ten feet from me whilst watching the Hunger Games at home, when her son or daughter had just died; how horrid it sounds to say that I ignored the grief and the pain not because I didn't care but because I didn't want to know; how horrid it sounds to say that, no matter what, I had acted like the Hunger Games didn't really exist - didn't bother me.

Until the sadness hit _my _home. Until it hit Prim.

Attempting to disguise my aches and worries, especially for Logan and Fiona, I smile grimly up at Finnick as he pauses in front of Haymitch and I and leans casually against the wall, with his hands tucked in his pockets. I find it endlessly annoying how he can look like _that _without ever trying. I guess, though, that's one of the reasons he is _so_ famous. He's _Finnick Odair, _after all. Flawless Finnick.

"Hello, Katniss," he says, nodding to me. He looks to Haymitch. "Haymitch."

Haymitch gives a gruff greeting in reply whilst his eyes skip to the other side of the room and lock on the bar.

Finnick raises an eyebrow and looks to me. "You've banned him from drinking?"

"Not drinking," I correct. "Getting drunk."

With a dark glare aimed in my direction, Haymitch says, "You know me, sweetheart. I don't get drunk at times like this."

"I believe you're referring to being so drunk you're paralytic," I say, looking to him in a kind of sorrow, "as opposed to simply being 'drunk'."

Finnick nods. "Yeah. You're always paralytic," he agrees. He runs a hand through his hair and, in hesitance and remorse, says, "Not that I blame you, of course. I'd probably do the same if I could."

Haymitch looks both parts angry and embarrassed. "You can't though," he snaps irritably, "because you're the Capitol's whore and you have to be sober in case you called pulled away to screw some old geezer."

Something hard and horrendous strikes me right in the middle of the gut. I feel hate and disgust and a writhing unease flood my stomach like a viscous goo and, in a sharp voice, I snap, "_Haymitch!"_

He looks to me. Blanches. Looks regretful for a moment. Then, he mutters, "I'm getting some booze," and leaves Finnick and I alone.

I try hard to understand what Haymitch just did. He was spiteful towards Finnick about something he, himself, abhors and despises and finds revolting - thereby, in turn, he was indirectly spiteful towards me. Whilst I can understand that he was upset about the drinking comments because of the roots of his alcoholism which therefore gives me understanding about his snap-back comment, I can't understand how he could-

No, wait. I can. I get it. I've probably made a horrid comment to him about his drinking before; it's the same thing, isn't it? Me making a comment about his clear alcohol addiction is- but, no. No, it isn't. It's not the same. Whilst Haymitch chooses to drink, Finnick and I are forced into the prostitution; it's different to his drinking on so many levels. For one, we hate the fact we have to give our bodies to lustful strangers; and, yes, whilst Haymitch would prefer to live life sober, his drinking doesn't make him hate himself like our prostitution does us; it just intensifies his hate for the Hunger Games, Snow and the Capitol. And also increases his sorrow.

The goo of self-loathing and dirt sets like mould in my gut and I feel so sick I might throw up; instead, though, with a feverish dizziness, I look up at Finnick's face which is stoic and tight and paler than usual, and say, "I'm so sorry. I don't... Sorry. He doesn't mean it."

Finnick smiles tautly. "I know," he says. "I was a little uncalled for, so I guess I deserved it. And he's right, isn't he? That is the reason I have to stay sober."

The goo crawls up my oesophagus and clings like ash to my throat. My lips crack open as if I'm about to speak but no sounds comes out.

"I'll apologise to him later," Finnick continues. "I shouldn't have said it. I'm just cranky today and..." He scratches the back of his neck then looks up to the ceiling as if uncertain. He seems to crack and decide that now is not the time for a deep emotional chat, and plants on a facade of seduction and humor. Finnick Odair is back and, as usual, begins to try and seduce with a not-so-subtle move to lean in towards me and a cheesy line: "And I think it's making my attractiveness bump up to obscene levels. What do you think, girl on fire? Do I work the smoldering, cranky vibe?"

With a appalling attempt at a smile, I say, "I'm sure other women think so."

He doesn't seem to hear it. Instead, he grabs my wrists. I freeze up and try to yank myself out of his grip because I feel trapped and agitated without my arms freedom; but then I feel the burning on my arms. The dirt coating my skin. The hard, sickly oil slicking the inside of my stomach. I wonder if I'll puke, and pull myself with a stumble from his grasp.

Finnick's hold remains strong. He bends in so close to me that his lips almost touch mine and, feeling flushed and nauseated, I sway into his hold clumsily. His hands firmly grasp my forearms instead. "Katniss," he says softly, frowning. "You're scratching."

I stare at him whilst the confusion settles in my expression. He is looking down at my arms and carefully turns them over. "Look," he says.

I do. Finnick's arms look even more golden compared to my olive skin but that's not what makes me freeze. What makes me pause and peer incredulosuly downwards is the short, red and rough nail marks which glow hotly in my skin. They look quite fierce but luckily none bleed; they hurt, though. A lot. Like a constant and unyielding saw blade scraping off my skin.

"Did I do that?" I ask, feeling muddled.

Finnick nods and focuses on me. His eyes, as fluid and as crystalline as the sea, pierce through me. "Yes," he says. "I saw you do it. I _knew_ you weren't okay but I thought it was just the Hunger Games getting to you. I thought bringing it up would make it worse."

I find myself unable to tear my gaze away from his. Nevertheless, I don't say anything. My heart is pumping too loudly to make myself heard.

"How many?" Finnick's voice is so quiet and concealed that I have to really focus on him - really concentrate - to hear what he says, which is hard considering the manic which is running through my body. I hear him, though. I always do. "How many clients?"

The dirt is back on my skin. _Oh, God, I need a shower._ "It doesn't matter," I mutter. I can feel my fingers prickling. "It's fine."

"No, Katniss, it's not _fine!_" For the first time since I've known Finnick, he actually looks angry with me. Truly, undeniably _angry._ "Do you realise what just happened? First you drown yourselves in showers - which is your coping technique, I _get it_ - but now, with the added stress, anguish and worry of and about the Hunger Games and your tributes, you turn to yet _another_ technique which is more dangerous than your first. In ways you don't even know."

The moment of silence that Finnick's words leave make me think of his friend and the scratching they used to do, and then it hits me: "It was you!" I say, furrowing my eyebrows. "You're the 'friend' scratched yourself before, aren't you?"

Finnick only shakes his head. "You've seen me stark naked, Katniss. Did you see any scars?"

I feel the intellect I thought I had gained deflate inside of me. "No," I say.

"No," he agrees. Finnick tries a smile but he still looks fairy agitated, so it's strained. "I still know how dangerous it is though. And so do you. Katniss, if you scar yourself, your clients could complain and then your family..."

"They'll pay for it," I state. Despair rips through my skin and skins deep into my lungs like cyanide. "Dammit! Okay. _Okay,_ I'm fine. I'll be fine."

I try to ignore the anger and the melancholy I feel; even when only hurting myself or trying to cope with everything, consciously or subconsciously, I am hurting the people I love. It fuels my hate-fire. It makes me resent Snow more than I already did - so much so I could spit acid. And I thought I already despised him as much as I could.

It's funny how you can want to strangle a snake and still feel it strangle you, which only makes the need to strangle it even larger - more intense.

"Yes," Finnick says softly. "So, how many? I must be a lot if you're scratching. Showers normally help you cope - even with the Hunger Games going on."

My mouth cracks open. I feel the words form like icy salt on my tongue, bitter and sharp, and go to spit them out - but before I can the TV screen flickers to life. Finnick and I turn to face it, regretfully. I watch his eyebrows raise at me, as if to prompt my speech but I clamp my jaw shut tight. In this moment, I realise that the Hunger Games are about to start; that in the time we have been talking, about one hundred sponsors have entered the room; that soon, I will either have to watch Fiona and Logan fight, or fall.

My thoughts are so jarred during the introduction to the Games that Caesar Flickerman's voice is barely a blur of background noise. I feel Finnick's eyes searching me over now and then; and Haymitch, not even slightly wobbly on his feet, joins me at my side.

Then Caesar speaks that dreaded line.

"Happy Hunger Games!" he says, in that usual bright and professional tone. "And may the odds be _ever_ in your favour!"

* * *

**I hope you liked it! Couple of things I wanted to ask you, though, due to some input from you! :)**

**A) Would you guys like a bonus chapter from Finnick's POV? **_Normally, I don't do this sort of thing if I'm writing a whole story in someone's POV as opposed to third person, but a lot of people have been asking for it. I guess it'd be quite fun to challenge myself, too. So, give me your thoughts! :)_

**B) Prostitution! **_Whilst I was planning on writing more in-depth about this and showing more about the sorts of things that goes on, I'm not sure what level you would be comfortable with. Whilst I don't want it to be pornographic and perverted, I feel that maybe it's something you might want to know or see. Could you give me some sort of levels or images you guys would want to see? I guess what I'm asking is for you to tell me if you want to just read the chat that goes on before and after with the clients, or if you want to read the whole sha-bang __and the chat, or no chat at all - and, also, to what description and/or depth you'd want this in._

**I know it's a lot to ask. Sorry about that. I just ask because I want you guys to really get the most out of this story. :)**

**Additionally (how much am I talking this chapter?!), someone asked about payment. Katniss and Finnick are not paid for their prostitution; **_people pay Snow for however many hours they want with either Katniss or Finn, and Snow does not pass on that money to them. The clients may, however, give gifts or favours to Katniss/Finnick. Finnick asks for secrets as opposed to gifts, as you know. Everyone can have Katniss or Finnick so long as they pay; people who sponsored Katniss or Finnick in THG do not have to pay (well, apart from a small fee) but have to start to pay after they have 'used' or 'dried up' the amount of money they sponsored Katniss or Finnick with. Does that make sense? I don't know._

**Thank you again! xo**


	19. The Hungry Nineteen

**Wow. I've been awful at updating recently, haven't I? Sorry. I've been dehydrated and it's made my thoughts all... Anyway, the point is that anything I would have posted while dehydrated would have been a) awful and b) incomprehensible. Here's the update, anyway! From now on, I'll try update twice a week - thrice, if I have the time. I probably wont. :)**

**Thank you for your lovely responses! Some of you wrote your reviews to me in PM when you had issues, so thank you for having such dedication as to writing to me even when you could have simply thought, "Eh. I tried!" and given up. It means the world! Sorry again for the slow update. I don't deserve you guys. xo**

* * *

I don't know how I manage to stay calm.

Staring at Caesar as he quickly introduces the show and the arena and, furthermore, gives a quick introduction to the tributes, I notice the sternness in my stomach hasn't faded. It is foolish think it will; who am I kidding? It is always there, the unrest; the abominable motion. It will never leave me.

Finnick knows this. It's why he slowly finds my hand - which is twitching nervously by my side - with his. His is strong and warm and large, though even I can feel it is a little sweaty. A little unsteady. It makes me wonder how many tributes he has lost and how much pain, guilt and suffering it has brought him. I imagine a lot.

Somehow, it makes me need Finnick more. Respect him more. Like him more.

"Are you okay?" he asks huskily, bending down at a slightly awkward, sideways angle. His words brush over me in a delicate curl as I breathe in the myriad of salt and sugar and mint and freshness. My body sways into him. His thumb tenderly strokes the outline of my index finger.

How much strength can I draw from him? I want there to be enough left for him, too. "I'm okay," I whisper back, but my voice is yet again that of a stranger. Of course, Finnick knows I'm not okay. He's actually asking if I'm able to stand here and bear it; to smile for the sponsors and act like I don't despise the fact that they are here to bet on those who will live or die, and support them in order to win; to act like these people aren't here for the sheer enjoyment they get out of the Hunger Games; to act like I don't want to stick my heels down their throats.

I don't like these heels, either. I'd be killing two birds with one stone.

Finnick squeezes me hand as he stars down at me. I feel a swell in my throat as I stare back, and get caught up in the concern and the ambivalence and the worry in his eyes. "I'll stay with you," he says. "I'll always try to stay with you."

My throat closes up. I feel my eyes fog over and everything starts to blur and sting. "Thank you," I whisper again, still as a stranger.

He nods, then looks back to the screen. I do the same and shake off this weakness; damn, I do not need weakness right now! I need strength and determination and anger.

I need to be _Katniss_. Not this... this quiet, subdued weakling.

"It seems that this year's arena is predominantly rock," Caesar says. He is not visible; what we are staring at, instead, is an all-around sweep of the arena before the tributes have arrived. "I'm not sure how that's going to work out for them, Claudius."

I'm not sure, either. In fact, I'm suddenly routed with extreme anxiety. Where can they find food, or water? All there is - all I can see - is jagged rocks and a suddenly, deadly drop, which is somewhat concealed by a large lump cluster of said rock. Then, I see the stream. I nudge Finnick and point it out, who in turn points it out to Haymitch. Perhaps there is fish there. Perhaps that's where they can get food?

I realise immediately that it's unlikely because this arena is meant to kill. It's meant to cause death and suffering; to challenge the tributes to no end. There's no food in sight; only one area for water, which will cause confrontation; and there is a lot of flat, open land mixed in with the caves and the coarse collections of rock, which is perfect for bloody battlefields. The Capitol are bloodthirsty and crave action and tragedy; I bet, this year, Senecra Crane is going to do all he can to cause as much Logan/Fiona drama as he can.

A pain strikes me in the middle of the chest. I slam my eyes shut and breathe deeply as Finnick steps in closer to me in support. That will not happen! I will protect them both until I fall dead from exhaustion. I will fight and fight and do everything in my power to ensue that one of them lives, and that the other will be avenged. They have to, because I can't bear to think of the alternative. I've thought of that, already. It is the most likely scenario after all... _They die._

No! No. They will not. One will live. One will be avenged. _I will help them_._  
_

"And here they come now, Caesar!" Claudius chimes. "The tributes!"

He is right. We see them, slowly raising upwards on their platforms. The moment their eyes raise above ground level, each and every one of them scope out the arena and scour it. They look for their possible allies and what the arena _is_; they look for possible food sources, though I know there is none; they look for possible water sources, though the stream is not in sight; and they look for what to collect at the cornucopia, which is bright and metallic under what Caesar has told us are hot, dry temperatures. The cornucopia looks a bit out-of-place as it stands solid in between a congregation of oblique boulders, though I imagine it would look inconspicuous were it not gleaming, and of a grayer colour.

There is only a short slice of commentary before the counting starts; each tribute is now raised at full altitude and stands in some sort of readied position. My eyes seek out Fiona, who looks like she wants to flock in the other direction and cry endlessly for her life; she also looks tall, though - strong. As if she is not internally begging for this whole thing to be a dream. It's not a dream though, so her pleads are pointless. She knows it, too; I know it; we _all_ know it. Some more so than others.

Logan, on the other hand, looks furiously determined. He is leaning forward as if ready to pounce, and I notice he is angled towards Fiona who is about six podiums to the left of him. He is no a suicide mission, no doubt. A mission to ensue Fiona lives on past this irreparable and scarring taint in her memory. He knows it is purely up to him because, in my position, I can only act on the spot - one crisis at a time, in order. I can manipulate situations or people so the odds are in their favor. I can't force the knife from their throats.

Logan knows this, so he knows that only he can protect Fiona from any sudden threats, which I cannot prevent.

The number seven rings loudly down my ears and I realise, as it does, that I am squeezing Finnick's hand entirely too tightly. I loosen my grip. It feels, though, as if I've severed a life-line. It makes me feel unusually vulnerable.

Finnick looks down at me just as I look up at him. His smile is impish and understanding. "You're stronger than that," he says, nodding down to our interloped hands. "You can do better than that."

A surge of warmth enraptures my heart as I smile waveringly at him. "I can," I say, and return to crushing his bones with my previous ferocity.

"Better," he comments teasingly. I know he is just trying to raise my spirits and he does, if only meagerly; then, we are facing the screen again. Unease grasps at me more and more savagely as each second ticks away...

_Five..._

_Four..._

_Three..._

_Two..._

_One..._

The alarm blares. There's a very quick, very abrupt sense of silence and stillness. Then, everything explodes.

Tributes wash out into the cornucopia like a blaze of fire, or a tide of water, and blood runs from the first victim to be cut down by Kirk, from District 5. The surprise that radiates through the Capitol that a 5 is the first to kill is astounding, and I watch several Capitolites inch closer to the screen in shock and anticipation. The knife sticks out, angular, from the murdered girl's throat but Kirk swipes it up which only makes the blood pour out of her, quicker and quicker, and then Blade's arrow it protruding from Kirk's chest and he's swiped up Kirk's knife, which he uses to duel shortly and win against a girl from District 6. The battle is endless, and even though the death and destruction hits me right in the middle of the chest, I can only find myself watching out for Fiona and Logan who have found each other through the rivers of blood.

Suddenly, I watch the girl from 8 start sprinting towards them. I want to scream at my tributes, tell them to watch out - but then Logan has turned and he spots her just in time to narrowly avoid a knife that she thrusts relentlessly at him, once and then twice - and then Logan, who seems to see red when the knife slices over Fiona's arm and breaks skin, slams his hand down in the girl's elbow pit which makes her cry out, and her grip loosen. Logan pries the knife from her hand and, immediately, he slices her throat.

I watch his face crumple into despair. The girl's limp body tumbles to the floor like a rag doll. Fiona is crying and shouting at him, tugging on his arm with a backpack hanging off her shoulder. The battle is slowly dying out; tributes drop away from the initial onslaught either by death or by tearing themselves away from the scene.

Fiona is almost losing it. I can see the desperation in her expression, feel the tears in her eyes. Then abruptly, Logan flashes back to reality in a brutal shock; it has only been seconds, but feels like a millennium. And finally, he rushes away with her into a forest of horned and tapered rocks. They are safe for now, as they breathe harshly and endlessly dash further into the arena.

A sigh of relief parts my lips. I look up to Finnick, who's face is twisted almost imperceptibly.

One of his tributes has not been so lucky.

"Finnick..." I say, speaking softly and carefully.

He shakes he head, looking down to me with broken eyes. "Kirk killed her," he says, looking torn and confused. "She was the first to die..."

How did I not recognise her? It must have been the fear that smothered her expression. Finnick's tribute, Annalise, had been one of the strongest and stoniest tributes this year. When it came down to it, however, she couldn't handle it. It became real.

What do I say? Sorry does not suffice. It is pointless. Sorry wont bring her back; wont take away his loss and pain. "She deserved better," I state instead.

Finnick stares down hard at me. His countless thoughts smear his sea-green eyes into a mess of emotion; a shroud of vulnerability removes the strength I have so often sought in him. "Yes," he says in a voice which is hoarse and stiff. "She did."

Haymitch breaks us apart, suddenly. "I'll stay out here with the sponsors," he says. I realise suddenly that everyone is now moving, as the initial battle is over and we can now help them and protest them; people are mingling and watching the screen, eating food, talking to mentors. "You're not a people person. You go in there," he indicates to the control room with a tip of his whisky glass, "and start looking out for 'em. Start trying to communicate with 'em using gifts - _when necessary, _sweetheart. Don't blow their money."

"I wont," I snipe indignantly.

Haymitch nods, pausing in thought. "Watch both the individual screens linking to Fiona and Logan _and _the main screen - the Hunger Games," he spits the title out. "The hologram map in the middle should be working now, so look there to see where they are or if they're close to the stream."

I nod. "I will, Haymitch. You focus on getting sponsors."

Haymitch nods. "Sure, sweetheart," he says. "So long as you don't focus on Finnick, instead."

I glare at him in a stony silence, feeling my blood boil and my head rush. I would _never_ do that! I would _never _put Finnick before the lives of Logan and Fiona! He will not distract me! He is here for support and for his tributes - tribute - only. Not for company, or a bit of fun.

My anger and spite suddenly control me.

"Sure, Haymitch," I mimic sarcastically. "So long as you don't focus on booze."

And then, although I regret what I have said instantly, I turn my back on my old mentor and storm into the control room.

* * *

**Is how I've written it okay? I tried to find a bit of balance between the Hunger Games and Katniss... I think I like it like this, regardless of this being a fairly short chapter. The next will be longer, I promise! :)  
**

**Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Was it a yes to a bonus Finnick POV chapter? There wasn't much response or deliberation. **

**Thank you all so much for reading! A chapter you should all like (for *ahem* reasons) is in about three chapters. Thanks again! xo**


	20. The Hungry Twenty

**Hello again, everyone! Here's the latest installment that I hope you will all enjoy! Also, I'm thinking next chapter will be the Finnick chapter. It seems like it's the right time! I'm looking forward to it. If you don't want to read it, it will be named 'The Hungry Bonus', so feel free to skip it. If not, I hope you enjoy it when I post it!**

**Anyway, here's the next chapter. Enjoy! xo**

* * *

Nine died in the initial onslaught.

Caesar Flickerman announces it not long after I head into the control room. It is easy enough to work out what I am doing in there, and I find myself getting as comfortable as possible; it's a little challenging, what with the constant and undying torture of worrying what will happen next; if Logan and Fiona are ready and prepared for this; what move they will make next; if I can think quick enough and do the right thing; if another tribute will soon strike so hard at them they'll both fall dead.

It is hard to be optimistic at a time like this. Any other person in my situation can tell you the same.

Finnick is sat at his District 4 control station across the room from me. I can see him staring up at the monitors with furrowed eyebrows; I bet he is worrying about the same thing as me. He only has one tribute now - a tribute I am sure he intends to keep alive. Desperately. His expression, however, does not portray this; in fact, it is hard to really know what he is thinking, or what his tribute is up to. I quickly turn away from Logan and Fiona, who are taking a quick break in a concealed cluster of rocks to check out their equipment, to look at the main screen. There is no sign of Finnick's tribute, Gabriel. I take it as a good sign.

I'll take anything as a good sign though, at this point - but I have to be vigilant. I can't afford to look at everything as if it is fine.

That will get Logan or Fiona killed. Perhaps both of them.

I focus my attention back on the screen, adjusting my headphones.

"You know what we're meant to do next, don't you?" Logan asks, glancing up at Fiona as he tucks everything back into the backpack they managed to swipe.

Fiona hesitates. "Haymitch said to find water first, then food." She starts gnawing so fiercely on her lip that I begin to worry that she'll raise blood; that is how cautious, how concerned, how unfathomably _frightened_ I am for them - I'm actually worried she'll cut her lip, which wont really have any sort of consequence whatsoever, bar a little blood and barely any pain.

_When did I become a mother?_

"Yes," Logan says. "He did."

"There's no water though, Logan! Its all rock!" I can see the panic start to absorb Fiona like a poison which had been planted long ago, and is only just starting to lash out, and I try to will Logan to move into her, to calm her down. "There certainly wont be any food!"

Logan shuffles towards her, placing the backpack to one side. "Come on, Fiona," he hushes her, gently, "don't worry. We'll cope. We'll find food and water."

"How can you say that?!" Her eyes are suspiciously shiny. She shakes her head then looks down to the hard rock floor, scraping her fingernail through the small stones and indentations that litter the arena, formed after years and years of weather. "You don't know that for sure, Logan. You don't know anything for sure."

Logan's arm wraps securely around her as he budges her up, so she is poised between him and a boulder. "Sure I do," he replies, softly. It's then I notice they are on the main screen and are currently the focus of the Hunger Games; resentment spikes me. They are intruding in on a private, intimate moment which may, no doubt, determine a small factor of their future as tributes. This isn't meant for the Capitol to see - for _anyone _to see. The Capitol just want to play up the close-twins-from-District-12 idea, so much so the audience fall in love with them and their relationship, before crushing their love and hope for them by killing one or maybe both of them off; _that_ will give the audience a good show, because that is all the Hunger Games is to them.

A good show.

It's not brutality or misfortune; it's not loathsome and unfair, or tragic; it's just a show! They don't consider for a moment that these are real people with real lives and feelings and that the relationships they have, the pain they feel, are not acted - are not scripted! They are _real._ What happens to them is real. One moment can change them or their lives forever. One kill can completely alter their perception.

One second can destroy them.

Logan looks down carefully at Fiona. I wonder if only I can see the wavering anxiety behind the confidence of his charming and supportive smile. I probably am. "I know a fair few things actually, Fi," he assures her. I can hear the sighs of the Capitol at the nickname; it is the first time any of us - even me - have heard it been said and it melts their hearts; these two, the twins, are heartbreakingly close. Heartbreakingly because we all know that, no matter what, this will never end in happiness for them. Not any more.

Not since the Hunger Games barged in and ruined everything they knew.

"Like what?" Fiona asks. She looks so resigned in her brother's arms, as if she has already given up.

"Well," Logan starts. He pauses in thought. "I know that Katniss and Haymitch are looking over us and ensuing that we'll be okay. At least for now."

His twin hesitates. "Well..."

"And you know that they'll fix us up if there truly is no food or water." He nudges her gently. "That's their job. They promised us, remember? Don't lose hope."

Fiona rubs at her face in exhaustion. "Yes, Logan but-"

"No buts." Logan grins cockily at her. "Only I can say 'but'. My 'but' wont be as depressing as yours."

Fiona elbows him gently, smiling slightly. "Shut up," she says, looking up at him. "I am not depressing!"

"Not you, no," Logan says slowly, "but your buts are."

"I only have one butt!" she laughs.

He laughs, too. "Way to take the situation out of context, Fi." There's a moment where they are simply grinning at each other. It reminds me of Peeta and how he made me laugh even in the most jaded times in the arena; it plays out the same, too, because their grins soon fade as they realise where they are, what they face, and who they are up against. "I'm usually the one to take stuff out of context anyway, aren't I?"

Fiona nods. "Sorry," she says. "I stole your job."

"And my joke, too," Logan kids. "I was saving that 'butt pun' up for a while now, Fi."

I'm sure the Capitolites find it remarkable how he can cheer her up at such a dire time. I don't. I experienced the same sort of thing with Peeta, except our situation was different. Logan and Fiona are twins, so they're closer than Peeta and I were. That means they're better connected and are, also, entirely able to read one another and they know how to cheer each other up, or put one another down. Logan, especially, is good at this. He can do it to everyone, amazingly. It's hard not to like him.

I'm sure half of the Capitol are in love with him.

Suddenly, as Logan and Fiona continue their banter distantly in my ears, a worry spurs like a tornado inside of me and I start to panic - panic for Logan and his future because I'm suddenly very aware of his options. One: he dies - most probably by being brutally murdered. Two: he lives without his twin sister, and is forced to give his body away so the rest of his family isn't killed off. Whilst I know this is also a worry for Fiona and all the other tributes, it's not as likely with them. Capitol aren't really in love with them; Fiona is sweet and innocent and likeable because she loves her brother so much, but no one is in love with her. Logan, however...

Logan is kind and charming and funny and cocky all at once. He's fifteen, yes, but he's mature. People constantly fawn over how 'handsome' he is, too. He is in trouble. People love him.

I don't know what I'll do if he comes out of this alive.

I'm suddenly thrusted back into reality at the mention of my name. "Just remember what Katniss told us," he says. "She can communicate with us through gifts. If she withholds anything, it's for a reason."

Fiona pushes hair out of her face and exhales slowly. "Right," she says, looking up at him. "It's for a reason..."

They set out no long after that, knowing their need for water is of the utmost importance. Luckily, with a glance at the map, I can tell they're heading in the right direction...

So long as the two tributes from 7 don't intercept them, first.

Logan and Fiona are given brief screen-time after their first slot but not much, as their journey is pretty much uneventful until night-fall. That is when Haymitch comes and sees me and suggests he takes the first night-shift, as all the sponsors have left to go home and sleep; the events of the night will be played throughout the following day whilst the Games are pretty uneventful. I refuse, however, and tell him I'll take the first shift; I'm not sure I could sleep and, anyway, I'm sure my job today has been easier than his. Talking to Capitolites non-stop sounds like my own, personal form of hell.

Finnick meets my eyes from across the room and gives a barely imperceptible nod. He is staying up, too. It makes me relax a little.

The night-shifts last three (or four hours, maximum) at a time, and give each mentor time to sleep. Sleeping, however, is the last thing on my mind and appears to be the last thing on Finnick's, too. I watch as he talks to his fellow mentor and previous mentor, Mags, who I know he is very close to. Perhaps she is one of the people Snow threatened to kill if he didn't comply...

Yes. She must be. Finnick has never mentioned having a real family.

"It's okay, Mags," he says to her. She's brought him something to eat just like Haymitch has for me, but Haymitch has left now. "I'll be okay."

Mags sucks her lips into her mouth. I wonder if she has teeth.

"Yes, Mags," Finnick says with a laugh. "Just go. I'll be fine, and you need your sleep to keep looking as beautiful as you always do."

She seems to laugh, and pats him on the cheek like he is her favourite son. She pinches it jokingly, and he swats her hand away as she speaks. I suddenly find myself enthralled with their relationship and know, with certainty, that Finnick would not cope well were Mags to die. Snow is most certainly using her against him.

I wont let her die. Finnick definitely wont.

Finnick smiles suddenly. "I know," he says. I bet Mags can hear the twang of pain in his voice, too. "I know there's nothing we could have done to save Anna. Just go and rest, Mags. You worry about me more than you do yourself!"

She raises a grey eyebrow at him, which makes the many wrinkles on her face appear more prominent.

"Yes, yes," Finnick dismisses playfully. "I know I'm a hypocrite - but it's different with me, see, because you're _you;_ No matter how beautiful you are, you're old. I'm sorry, Mags, it's only fact."

Mags laughs. She gives him a sloppy kiss on his cheek, pushes the food closer to him, and smiles as he says, "Yes, yes, I love you too. Now go to bloody sleep!"

She leaves a moment later, after waving briefly in my direction. I suddenly feel embarrassed that she knows I have been watching and don't meet Finnick's eye, who's grinning and raising an eyebrow at me. With a gulp, I turn back to my screen.

And I am just in time.

"Well, well," the District 7 male says, "fancy meeting the twins here..."

They are finally at the stream. They look exhausted, and sweat is dropping off Fiona like a river. Logan is sweating, too, but in a way that makes it look like he's been excessively exercising and so his skin is slick and shiny. It makes me sick how realistically I can hear the Capitol swooning; there must be a few people left in the shark room, because I hear their excited chatter as Logan is seen on screen.

The urge to stab something and puke becomes stronger.

The twins, however, steal my focus of thought. They don't look good; tattered and tired, they seem to need a deep, endless sleep and a hot meal, with a long drink of ice water. That, however, is not up for grabs. Their lives are as they face down District 7, as is the water from the stream.

Logan snorts. "Do you always bore your victims to death before trying to kill them?" he asks. I see him squeeze Fiona's hand tightly, because the word _kill_ seems to invoke bitter fear in her. As it is Fiona, I can see why. I can understand; the word 'kill' does not bring up any good options, or thoughts: _Logan could be killed; she could be killed; they may have to kill. _

The few Capitolites next door snicker, and Caesar, who has volunteered for the first night shift, comments on Logan's bravery and wit.

"Shut it, pansy!" the boy from 7 snaps.

Logan laughs. "That's not even close to my real name," he muses. "Feel free to try again, though."

The girl from 7 grows visibly irritated and fed-up. "For God's sake, let's just kill them already, Tate!"

Tate glares at her. "Wasn't it _your_ idea to do this thing?" he snaps. "Make our victims-"

I find myself checking out of Tate's mindless ramble and instead watch Logan. He is slowly drawing the knife he took from his first kill from his belt, silently. I thank whatever intelligence there may be for letting Logan share my thoughts; _kill them whilst they're occupied._ This duo seems a little... rusty, on the Hunger Games. They are talking, and there is no talk. There is only death.

Tate is in the middle of his sentence when Logan nudges Fiona, who draws her own, smaller knife that she got from the rucksack in response. Then, he strikes; Logan, quicker than I could have thought, lunges at the girl and sends her tumbling into the stream. Her head slams down on the rocks and she shakes herself wildly, trying desperately to surface her head to breathe - Logan doesn't directly drown her, but his weight keeps her under.

Yet he doesn't make a move to kill her.

Instead, Logan sits on her and stares down at her pale face, which bobs up and up and sometimes breaks the water, so her cracked lips can suck in even the tiniest breath of oxygen. I wonder what is flickering through Logan's mind; if he's thinking about sparing her. Just as I start to think he'll give in though, Fiona gives a startled gasp from behind him and his cold facade cracks. Fiona is all that matters; Fiona is hurt; Fiona is in danger...

And the girl he is wrestling with is the threat.

In a split second, Logan's face sets - the indecisiveness crumbles in his eyes and instead, builds up a wall of hatred and sorrow but a knowledge - a knowledge of what deaths are necessary. And this girl's death, whilst they live in the Hunger Games, is most certainly necessary. For the sake of Fiona.

Logan crashes his knife down into the girl's stomach.

Her flailing immediately stops. Instead, her arms fall still mid-air then slowly sink to her stomach, where she presses down. Her lips fall ajar and bubbles of air rush out and break through the stream, then her body starts convulsing as she begins to drown. Even though the water is a little murky, I know Logan can see her eyes; can see their colour start to fade; can see her life as it begins to slowly drain out of her, and flows down the stream. Blood blends sadistically in with the rushing water, like white velvet tangling with red silk, and stains Logan's hands.

He pushes himself up from the dying girl and doesn't spare her another glance; this all happens within seconds but, to me, it feels like an age. I imagine Logan feels the same way, and suddenly I realise I am holding my breath and squeezing something so hard I am shaking.

I don't look at what I am squeezing. My eyes stay fixed on Logan and my monitors, as I think desperately of a way to help. I can't help though, can I? I can't help in immediate combat. I can only help with illness and hunger and thirst and resources and... and...

God, I am useless! I am useless, I am useless, I am _useless_! Anger sparks in me like an explosion and ignites me, so instantly I want to rip out my hair and break whatever I can see - but my eyes remained fixed on Logan and the scene before me as he body slams into Tate's, who he shoves away from Fiona. The two crash to the floor and begin throwing punches and kicks and jabbing knives in each other's direction; their pants and grunts and groans fill the dead-silence of the arena, as Fiona begs and shouts for her brother and for his safety.

Logan is suddenly pinned. In an instant.

"My first kill," Tate says sardonically, grinning as he presses the knife harshly against Logan's neck - so harshly it draws blood, though it is not deep enough to kill.

Logan grunts and struggles underneath his body. "Don't make me laugh," he spits, glaring up at Tate. "I bet you kill people for fun!"

Tate's eyes flame up. I watch as his muscles tense and he exhales shortly through clenched teeth, hovering over Logan like a dangerously enraged tiger. He brings his face close, so close, to Logan's and breathes a foul, putrid waft of air over his face. "Don't piss me off, 12!" he murmurs sharply, pressing the knife deeper into his neck. Logan's eyes suddenly bug and his breathing becomes dangerously quick and pained.

The expression leaves him in an instant. He reminds me of Finnick; how he can mask his feelings within seconds, no matter what strength his emotions are. "Wouldn't dream of it," he rasps out, still managing a little grin.

Tate suddenly bursts into flames and his hand twitches, about to make the killing move - but he has forgotten something. We have all forgotten something...

We have forgotten that Fiona loves her brother just as much as he loves her.

"Drop it!" she says, shaky and filled with fear, though the hand holding the knife - the knife she loops around Tate's neck and presses firmly into his skin - stays steady. Tate does not move. "I said _drop it_!"

Tate slowly withdraws the knife from Logan's neck then throws it to one side; he knows that he will die if he kills Logan because it will break Fiona; he knows if he kills Fiona, he will die because it will break Logan - if the knife to his neck didn't involuntarily slit his throat first, because of his movement. No matter what, though, Tate knows he will lose, he will fall, and he will die.

All because Logan and Fiona will turn murderous if they lose one another.

"All right," Tate says, stiffly. The vexed storm of wrath in his eyes tries to calm itself but the knowledge of his defeat leaves him even more antagonised. I still can't relax, though, not until they are truly safe. "I'm getting up."

He slowly raises to his feet and Logan, too, gets up when free. He holds the sleeve of his arena uniform to his neck; his crimson blood taints it. "You okay, Fiona?" he asks her, giving her a check-over with his eyes.

She almost laughs but does not take her eyes of Tate. "Yes," she says, in a small voice. "You're not."

Logan grins wryly. "A little blood never hurt anyone," he says. He silently picks his knife up from the floor and indicates for Fiona to budge one way, so he can press the knife into Tate's back. "All right, Tate?" he asks him.

Tate scoffs. "I didn't think talking was allowed in the Hunger Games," he says.

"Well, you seem to like it," Logan muses, "and these are different circumstances, after all." He smile at Fiona is fleeting. "Start walking."

"Walking?" Tate asks, looking amused. "You're letting me go?"

Logan doesn't look weak or scared or even embarrassed by the fact he chooses to spare, as opposed to kill. Instead, he looks strong - like he is a true warrior. "Yes," he says simply. "We're letting you go."

Tate laughs like being given a second chance at life is something extremely ridiculous, as opposed to extremely lucky and kind. "How pathetic!" he spits. "You're pathetic, 12. Utterly pathetic!"

I wish he could see the look on Logan's face. It's almost one of pity. "Killing isn't the only thing you know, Tate," he says. "You should remember that. Now start walking and don't look back. If we see you again, we'll have to kill you."

Fiona seems routed with fear at the promise.

However, Tate seems to realise, now, what a blessing he has been given and he shifts on his feet. "All right," he says stiffly, and starts hesitantly walking forward, away from the point of Logan's knife. He is completely unarmed. "Maybe I'll see you again, 12," he shouts back at them.

My tributes says nothing. Instead, they watch Tate walk - then sprint - from their sight, following the path of the stream. And then finally, they relax.

I sag in relief, too, and my fist loosens around whatever I'm squeezing - which I now realise is moist and soft, and has split in my hand. I look down at it, feeling a rush of emotions pulse through my body, now that Logan and Fiona are safely able to drink and collect water in their canteen. A frown falls onto my face. "What the-"

"-hell did that chicken leg do to you?!" Finnick interjects, grinning like he's won the lottery. "It's already dead, girl on fire. No need to _kick_ it when it's down."

Oh, great. Leg jokes. As if the prospect of me squishing a chicken leg to smithereens isn't funny enough already. "Shut it, Finnick," I say. I can feel a grin poking at my lips though and when I look at him, it bursts to life on my face. He is sitting next to me in 11's station. "What are you doing here...?"

Finnick glances at his monitors, which display not that of District 11's tributes, but of Gabriel - his own. "11 are out of the Game," he says, looking sorrowful and bitter and not at all cool and composed, as he usually is. "I transferred the data from station 4 to this station, so I can be next to you whilst still keeping an eye on Gabriel like I did at 4."

"So you just swapped places?" I ask. I ignore the stab of pain when I think that 11 is already out - _Rue..._

He nods and grins sheepishly. "Yes," he says. Then he leans in insufferably close to me, so everything about him smothers me delicately and, softly, he mutters, "For you."

A blush fills my cheeks. I clear my throat and look back to my monitors as Finnick smirks to himself, obviously amused that he can... can _do that_ to me so easily. Enrapture me. I start fiddling around with the controls on my station and send some food down for Logan and Fiona, which I buy with a few sponsor points. "Thank you," is all I say in the silence, and Finnick only shrugs.

"Well, it's also for myself," he admits. "I've grown... accustomed to being around you."

I spare him a side-glance. "You mean you missed me," I say.

"No," Finnick rejects. "Not at all. If anything, you missed me."

I scoff. "Oh, come on, Finnick," I reply, as if it's the most incredulous idea, when really it is as true as truth can be.

"No, you come on, girl on fire," he murmurs, leaning in ever-so-close to me again. "Admit it. You missed me."

I did. I still kind of do. Not that I'll admit it. "Just eat, Odair," I say, and nod down at his food. "Mags got that for you."

"And she didn't squish the chicken leg, either, by some sort of miracle." Finnick is still so close to me. I can feel myself fidgeting wordlessly. "I guess it's only you who kills her food for a second time."

"I guess so, Finnick," I agree, and let a genuine smile pull at my lips as I look to him. His eyes smile back at me. "I guess so."

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**There you have it!**

**So, I just wanted to talk about something(s) a lot of you guys have been bringing up: the length of my chapters, and Katniss' relationship with Gale. Let's start with the length, shall we? :)**

**OKAY! So, whilst I can understand the longer the chapter the better and what not, I can't always make that happen. I don't always have enough time to write long chapters - sometimes, I barely have enough time to write a _word _- so it's hard for me to please you on this. I'm really sorry if a chapter is short. Just know that I try my best to give you updates, and I make sure I reach a minimum of 2,500 words each chapter! I'm sorry about this factor, though. It's something that's been annoying me, too. **

**Now, about Gale! Don't worry about him. He's just... there. He's Gale. That will all be brought up in due time and, don't worry, he will _not_ be the focus of this story! I am zoning in on Katniss and Finnick - it is, after all, a story about them. Writing about her relationship with Gale would defeat this story's objective, so you needn't worry about that. Katniss and Finnick are and will always be the focus of this story. :)**

**Great! Now that's all sorted, have a nice day or night or what not! Thank you so much for your support, reads and reviews. They really keep this story going; I feel like you guys aren't interested if I'm not getting feedback, you know? It must be some sort of insecurity complex. ANYWAY, thank you for your reviews, as said! You guys (yes, that is a gender neutral term!) are all amazing. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. **


	21. The Hungry Bonus

**THE FINNICK CHAPTER IS HERE! Woo! Let's get straight down to it. I'm trying to keep some things a little hidden so... just enjoy :P I've written in third person because I like the anonymity of keeping Finnick's true character hidden; this will still allow you insight, however. Don't hate me yet! :P**

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Finnick Odair has found himself at an end. The night has not been kind to him.

He wonders where to start in his train of thought, almost in amusement, though it is instantly blackened with a loathing and a sorrow he thought he had abandoned; but, he realises, then _she_ came and they returned - the emotions. She has opened his eyes in a way, and he hates it as much as he loves it. Regardless, the feelings are there. Feelings sparked by the death of yet another tribute he couldn't save; feelings spawned gradually by the endless men and women he is forced to entertain; feelings brought into the light by a girl he has learned to live around - to breathe around. When was the last time he let his emotions become so noticeable? Probably when Annie was around. Then again, long after Annie left, he could feel emotion. True, that emotion was only anger and sorrow which, not so shortly after, morphed into hatred, hopelessness and an insufferable emptiness which suffocated his chest...

Finnick blinks, suddenly feeling that old part of him sink back in. He banishes it immediately and shuffles in the unfamiliar bed. That's enough thinking about Annie; the amount of time he spends tripping over her memory is almost equivalent to that of his life-span. Only recently has he been able to burrow out of the emotionless abyss her death had buried him in. Some would say it is ridiculous that he was so strung up on Annie's death; yes, he loved her once and, perhaps a part of him still does, but that part of his life is over. Their relationship is over. _She_ is over.

Most people think he should have moved on to the myriad of people who fall over him on a daily basis, either in lust or in love with him.

Finnick knows this - but he can't do it. They love the image of him and what he was in the arena, not_ him._ Besides, there really _is_ a small part of him that still loves Annie, and there always will be. He's very aware of the fact and so, yes, he does think about her even though she's gone. He's even accepted it; accepted the fact he will still feel perhaps an ounce of love for a dead girl, whom cannot ever love him back. Not where she is now. Finnick knows he'll never hear her laugh again or see her smile. He knows that the last memory he has of her is one where he made love to her against the animated sea-wall when she returned from her meeting with Snow, then cried herself to sleep in his arms whilst he hushed her softly, and kissed her hair and temples and eyelids over and over again.

The next day she was found as a corpse. She had overdosed, then drowned herself in the bath.

There was no note. She had said all there was to say the previous night. Finnick had not realised it was a goodbye.

Now, he certainly has.

As the thoughts overcome him, Finnick stretches out on the bed, arching his back. The woman next to him practically purrs and buries herself further into him but he ignores it, along with the fact that his arm has gone dead from where her body has been crushing it in her sleep. She is awake now, though, and Finnick could not hate anything more in that moment. Well, perhaps Snow. The president is, after all, the reason for this torture. And yet, he hates the woman next to him with such an intensity that it eliminates all despising, poisonous thoughts of Snow.

The woman giggles, and traces the muscles on his chest. It makes Finnick feel sick, and he has to focus with all his might on keeping himself loose and relaxed. "Look who's finally awake," he murmurs, looking down at her and feigning a cheeky grin. "I hadn't realised that I'm so talented women _faint._"

Finnick's latest client - he tries reaching for her name and fails, then decides it doesn't really matter and that he doesn't really care - lets out a tittering, screechy laugh that makes his ears bleed. He suppresses a cringe. "_I did_ _not_ _faint!_" she says, hitting him playfully.

It could have been flirty, were Finnick not thinking of slitting her throat. Actually, maybe he'd slit his own; he stopped killing other people the second he won the Hunger Games. Then again, killing himself is no different, and he's not too sure he wants to die at this point in his life. In this moment, however, on this bed with such a sleazy woman? Yes. He did feel a pull of something vaguely suicidal. Then again, Finnick has been doing this for years now, and what's another client? There will be many more.

_It's because **she** makes me think about it, _Finnick tells himself inwardly. _Katniss makes me reconsider myself and my emotions. Hell, she's even the cause of my emotion!_

"You practically did," Finnick replies, capturing her hand in his own. Her talons scrape against his chest but he ignores the very slight pain and brings her knobbly fingers to his lips. He gives them a very light, lingering kiss. "Not that I mind, of course."

"Oh!" The woman flushes red and giggles. He can't help but compare her blush to Katniss', and notices immediately how different they are; for one, Katniss' blush is warm and lights her up, whilst this woman's looks cold and artificial. Plastic.

Like her nails. Or her eyelashes.

Finnick lies there for a couple of seconds longer, letting himself submit into his constant act of _heartthrob _as he plays mindlessly with the ends of her yellow hair. Then, heaving a very realistic sigh, he mutters regretfully, "I've got to go, love."

Love is the nickname he's chosen tonight; she is in love with him, so it only makes sense to link the two. Whatever makes this charade more convincing, he supposes.

The woman pouts like a child in a strop and pulls his very naked body down on hers. "Are you sure you can't stay just a _little_ longer?" she asks. Her talons rake up his arms and wind around his neck as she presses herself, _every inch of herself_, to every inch of him.

Finnick groans like the prospect of leaving her is painful because he just can't get enough, when really he is thinking that jumping out of the window may be a quicker escape route. "I wish," he growls, faking a longing stare at her lips, "but I'm a mentor, love. I have to get back soon."

The woman pouts again, and Finnick feels a sudden jolt of anger; first, she takes up his first sleeping hours since the 74th Hunger Games have begun for a quick go in the sack, which should have been the first wink of sleep he's seen in - what? 16 hours? - and _now_ she's not letting him go back to the control room to mentor his remaining tribute?! Sometimes, Finnick swears he's going insane; surely, people can't be so self-centred - so _ignorant_._  
_

"If you're sure," she finally sighs in resignation.

Finnick looks down and her and gives her a long kiss filled with such intensity that she is both frazzled and breathless when he pulls back. He bores his eyes, which he knows will pull her in hook, line and sinker to ensure he does not get a complaint - not that he is expecting one because he has not had a complaint since the beginning of this 'job' - into hers and cups her cheek. Again, she's in love with him. He'll play up the sweet, loving angle all he can. "I'm sure we've met before," he says suddenly, looking muddled.

Her lips fall ajar as she stares up at him in a trance. Finnick notices her hot pink lipstick has been smudged all around her mouth. "We haven't met," she chokes out.

Finnick, seeming as she is madly in love with him and loves grand romantic gestures - that is obvious by the way she holds him, and how enraptured she becomes from a simple stoke or a light peck - does not sever the connection their eyes form. Instead, he makes sure to breathe a hot flush of air across her face. She breathes in deeply, and her breasts rise with her lungs. "Maybe it was in a dream that we met," he says, furrowing his eyebrows slightly, "or maybe this is a dream. It is hard to tell."

His smile is quirky, confused and ridden with false emotion.

The woman turns to jelly in his arms. "You think so?" she asks. Finnick is glad she is such a hopeless romantic, else this 'girl of my dreams' technique would never have worked. Never. "I... had thought it was only me. That you're only here because I requested it."

"Well, of course I am," Finnick replies smoothly. "I wasn't expecting someone like you though, love. I'm not going to lie by saying that I'm not here by obligation..." He ghosts two fingers up the side of her neck then tenderly traces her jawline with his index finger. She is almost quivering. "...but I can say with no hint of a lie that I have never met anyone like you; that I have never shared such a short time with someone and felt so connected."

Finnick knows it is all lies; that's part of the job, of course. Part of him feels guilty because he is leading her on, a woman who is twenty or perhaps thirty years older than him, yet another part revels in glee because with every lie, his loved ones are pushed closer into safety.

"I know!" the woman gushes, practically glowing.

Finnick's guilt thrashes in his gut. He ignores it and smiles mischievously at her, instead. "Do you? Or do I need to remind you-" his arms encircle her waist as he reels her in so close to him that their lips caress one another as they speak, "-just how well we fit together as I made love to you not an hour ago?"

Is her mouth watering? The very idea makes Finnick feel rather proud - then guilty, too, and a little upset. Nevertheless, he is also repulsed. He finds it hard to be otherwise. "A reminder would be _perfect_," she breathes, tangling her hands into his hair, "but... Oh, Finnick, you need to go!"

Her sadness makes him feel like the man who confiscates sweets from little children. The guilt hits him again like a tidal wave. "I do," he says, not having to feign the regret in his voice this time, even if he is regretting something completely different to what she believes. He pushes himself away from her and begins to clamber off the bed. "I'm sorry."

She smiles sadly. "You'll be back?" is all she asks.

As Finnick dons his shirt, he saunters over to where she lies, vulnerable, in the bed and places yet another kiss on her lips. "Soon, I hope," he says. He pulls on his underwear and trousers. "I really do need to leave though."

The woman nods. "Goodbye," she says.

Finnick stares into her eyes again and wonders if she is truly about to cry, before kissing her again out of instinct. He wonders if he does it to comfort her, too. "Bye love," he says, and tries not to focus on the heat of her lingering eyes on his body as he shuts the door behind him.

_Love._ The nickname penetrates his skin as he opens her front door and is greeted by a whoosh of night air; it is cold, yes, but what else does he expect for five o'clock in the morning? A beating sun and a flawless sky? No, he doesn't. He never does.

_Love._ What is it with that nickname? How many times has he called a woman that - that, or something ridiculous like baby or kitten, depending on how the client feels about him. It's pretty easy to determine which name to call them: if it is a male who is in lust with him, it's always baby; if it's a female in lust with him, it's either baby or kitten, depending on their personalities; if it's a male in love with him, it's always love; if it's a female in love with him, it's always love. He hates the nicknames; never would he call someone he loves something so cheesy and cliché. Some of his clients feel the same; it is easy to distinguish which ones Finnick should not give a pet-name to, and those are the client's whose names he bothers to learn.

There is a moment, as Finnick recalls this, where he feels a hatred for himself that has not surfaced so noticeably in a long time. Perhaps too long.

_Love_. The word has such a strong effect on his clients, yet means next to nothing to him. The woman he has just left, he realises, was about to cry and may be crying at this point in time as he jogs down the pavement. It makes him feel awful; it makes him feel guilty and dirty and like a disgrace - a disgrace who makes up filthy lies and sleeps with half of the Capitol and always, _always_ leaves them wanting more.

Finnick stops in his strides, suddenly, feeling the silence his footsteps leave like a hold in his chest. What has happened, he wonders? He has not considered his emotions or a client's emotions in... a long while. Too long, almost. All that has ever mattered when he meets up with a client is his loved ones and their safety, and how alive they shall stay if he just has sex _one more__ time_ with this one person. It's never one more time though; Finnick knows it, too, but somehow it gives him comfort before entering a client's house. Maybe because it fools his brain into thinking that the suffering will almost end.

He starts walking again, faster this time as the cold prickles his skin. Luckily for him, the client's house is not far from Tribute Tower. He relishes in the thought of being able to have, perhaps, an hours sleep in his own bed and speeds up again. He was unable to sleep in that woman's bed after doing... deceiving... acting... _portraying_ such false feelings and acts for her. Acts she may believe are for her and her alone.

Finnick pulls the same tricks every single time, though. It's all relative to whom he's bedding next.

The idea of sleep suddenly seems impossible. Finnick realises where he's going before he even reaches the training centre - but when he does, he plants his thumb on the_ up_ button of the lift, and then again on floor 12. Something similar to anticipation or giddiness writhes pleasantly, and yet unpleasantly, in his stomach and he frowns down at it as if he can burn the feeling away with his eyes. It only proceeds to slick up his lungs to his chest and his head and then, too, his veins, and soon he's shuffling on his feet because his whole body is alight with a not-so-pleasant pleasantness.

Suddenly, the door opens. Finnick looks up and, dazed, blinks. He realises that he is in a lift, as opposed to some sort of otherworldly capsule in his head.

He steps out. He finds himself smirking about the fact that, before, he'd have to get permission from reception for access onto a floor which is not his own, for which they'd call the floor - evidently, it was always 12 - and someone would answer the phone. "Are you expecting Finnick?" the receptionist would ask, and whoever was on the phone would reply, "Well, no but he's certainly welcome!" And then the doors would open.

Now, however, he's been to this floor so many times that the security procedure is simply seen as a waste of time. By everyone. He recalls once that, when Haymitch had answered the phone call, he'd gotten grouchy about the fact that they were _still ringing to check if Finnick could come up to their floor even though he's been there how many goddamn times?!_ and Katniss had only taken the phone off them and said, "Sorry, he's drunk. The sentiment still stands, though," and hung up on them.

That's when reception stopped calling. Finnick laughs briefly to himself before shredding his jacket, and knocking softly on Katniss' door. He doesn't want to wake her up, of course; if she's asleep, he'll just got back to floor 4, shower, the lie sleeplessly in bed for a while before, inevitably, hitting the gym. He almost wishes he can go there now but decides that Katniss is not only better than the gym but also more important. He'll have to find time later to work off the dirt from his latest client.

"Who is it?" Katniss asks.

A blot of worry ticks in Finnick's head when he realises she sounds a little stuffy; and also, she's asked who he is. Almost always she'll come to the door and open it to see who it is, then, depending on who she sees, either lets them in or slams the door in their faces. If she doesn't do that, she just shouts a quick, "Come in!"

"It's me," Finnick says. Then, he's rolling his eyes at his stupidity; just because he can recognise her voice, doesn't mean she can his, and corrects, "It's Finnick."

There's some movement on the other side of the door and then it opens. She looks like she hasn't slept a wink, and Finnick notices she's clutching something desperately in one hand. He says nothing of the sort - nor anything about how she looks as bad as he feels - and instead smiles smoothly as she says, "Finnick!"

"Miss me, girl on fire?" He steps into the room and closes the door behind him. "This obsession of yours has got to end."

Katniss tries at a smile, and Finnick knows that she is trying her best, even if it looks like she has just been slapped with a wet fish. "You're the one who came to me, Odair," she replies. "Not the other way around."

Finnick feels his lips tweak up into something genuine. "We both know you want me here," he says.

Katniss neither accepts or denies it. Instead, she sits back on her bed and stares out to her forest-wall; the animated forest wall, which Finnick knows Katniss is begging to be real, so she can feel the breeze through her hair or hear the birds titter in the rising sun, and be in a place which is entirely her own - which calms her down and completes her. He knows she is feeling this because he feels it, too, for his own wall which is that of the ocean. He tells himself that he'll be there soon.

"You miss it." Finnick intends for it to come out as a question but instead, it is a statement, and Katniss looks to him almost incredulously. "The woods, I mean."

Finnick watches her lips part as if to speak but there is nothing. Nothing except the pull in his chest which he ignores. "Yes," she replies after a moment, looking back to the wall. "A lot."

He knows that the woods isn't the only thing she misses about District 12. "You miss your family, too," he continues. "Prim, your sister, mostly, but you miss him as well, don't you?"

Finnick inspects her reaction closely. It is immediate; when she realises that he is speaking of Gale her muscles tense slightly and her hands fidget in her lap. She doesn't look away from the woods but Finnick can see the sorrow in her eyes and the conflict in her expression. She sighs, suddenly. "No," she says. "I don't."

It annoys him that her confession makes him happy, especially because she sounds so guilty - confused, too. And morose. "You don't?" he asks. There's a piece of hair tickling her cheek as she breathes, softly, and he stamps out the urge to brush it away.

"No," she confirms. "I don't." It is immediately apparent to him that Katniss intends to say more so he waits patiently. When, a minute later, she has not spoken and only looks more torn and more pained, Finnick steps in front of her and crouches down, frowning in concern. She looks to him. Frowns. Then says, "Finnick, you've got a little..."

She points to his neck and Finnick, immediately, knows what he's 'got a little' of. The woman's hot pink lipstick. It both embarrasses and bothers Finnick that she's seen it, and suddenly he wishes for a shower or a good sprint - even better, a good swim. "Oh, I..." He doesn't try and wipe it off, but instead smiles grimly and says, "I just had an appointment."

The word is slime in his mouth. _Appointment. _Today, of all days, is a bad day for an appointment; the Hunger Games have just started. As if feeling worried, put-down, concerned, and even a little scared isn't enough, he also has to deal with feeling like his skin is being ripped from his body whilst guilt and disgust and a loneliness he has felt ever since the death of Annie thump antagonistically in the cage of his chest.

Katniss seems to have the same thought. "I've got one, too," she mutters. "Tonight during Haymitch's night-shift."

Finnick feels himself deflate for her but doesn't let it show; instead, ignoring also the loathsome fury he feels over Snow's heartlessness, he puts his hands on her thighs. It reminds him strangely of their night on the roof. "I'll meet you here afterwards," he says, not knowing what could possibly make this better. Suddenly, for the first time in years, he feels conscious of himself and the fact that he's just invited himself around. Katniss is making him do a lot of things and feel a lot of things that he hasn't in years, he realises. "Of course, only if you want me there."

Katniss nods wordlessly and looks back to the woods. Finnick follows her gaze and wonders how the woods feels, because other than in his Games he's never been there and he's sure being in the woods feels different when you're fighting for your life against innocents, then he looks back to her, wondering what she's thinking. Subconsciously, his eyes trace the outline of her eyes then her nose and her lips, following down her neck and her shoulders and her arms...

Finnick pauses at her hands, feeling the resentment inside of him boil. What Finnick had seen Katniss clutching, what has now been revealed to him, is a cream letter. A letter from Snow.

He doesn't think as he pulls her in for a hug. All he knows is that she's not coping, not really, and that she's slowly tearing down his defences. Perhaps she already has.

"I'm glad you've come to see me, Finnick," Katniss says.

The gym certainly seems like the lesser option when compared to Katniss, now. "I didn't really have a choice," he replies. "My feet just dragged me here."

It's a joke, of course. He's glad she hears it that way too, because it makes her laugh, and laughing is something that Katniss rarely does. Except, Finnick has noticed, when she's around him. It swells his pride. She sounds good when she laughs, too. It's contagious. He laughs with her and, soon, the reason for their laughter is irrelevant and they're just grinning at each other because they can, and because they frown far too much.

Finnick doesn't notice how carefully Katniss has evaded speaking of Gale. Not until much later, anyway, when he is already too late.

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**I really hope I did this justice! I'm actually nervous about posting this. I didn't want to give too much away, hence the 3rd person and what not. Still, I hope you like it. Reviews on this chapter would be exceptionally helpful! Thank you. xx**


	22. The Hungry Twenty-One

**Holy hell! It is both terrifying and exciting that I'm on the twenty-first chapter. I never actually thought about reaching this point, which is weird because I knew I'd get here. Anyway, I'm so happy you guys liked the last chapter! Alternating POV changes isn't something I do a lot; I'm not a fan of it myself but I'm glad you liked it! It was, admittedly, fun to write and wasn't useless (I don't think?) as POV changes normally are in some stories. Oh, and the next chapter will be the chapter I've you've all been waiting for, whether you know it or not. (*cough* smut *cough*) XD**

**(Also, some people asked about having another bonus Finnick chapter. Let me know how you feel about this. I'll do it at chapter 30, probably, if I do write another Finnick POV).**

**Thank you so much for reading and reviewing. You guys really brighten up my day.**

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**IMPORTANT: this chapter is quite dark, though the next lightens a little, and mentions pornography. Just to warn you in advance.**

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I wipe exhaustedly at my face, feeling my eyes fog over from lack of sleep. Despite Haymitch relieving me of the night-shift twenty minutes earlier than expected, I only managed to squeeze in about half an hour of sleep. Why? I simply couldn't, of course. Worry and angst made it virtually impossible. I doubt I will sleep tonight, too, especially considering what Snow has arranged for me.

That's part of the reason I could not sleep, as well. Worry. Hatred. Disgust. Knowing I have an appointment and have to give my body to yet another stranger who is wildly enthralled with me, either by love or by lust, sickens me to the stomach. It radiates through my body. Not only the anticipation of what they will ask me to do makes me go skittish but so, too, does the idea of what they feel for me. Knowing that someone you have never met can _buy_ you to fulfil fantasies and thoughts they have replayed in their head over and over again... And can, also, experience such a deep-routed obsession with you that they can claim they are wildly in love with you is, for want of a better word, shocking; mind-blowing; overwhelming...

Or maybe that's just me. I've never been good with love, after all. First, I find out Peeta is - _was_ - in love with me and now Gale; my record isn't so great, considering how I dealt with both cases - and how I _still_ deal with both cases. Lies, lingering thoughts, and regrets. That is me and love.

Love, to me, is perhaps what my parents used to have. The ferocious need to share everything with one another, to protect and be with one another constantly, and to stand by each other in times of hardship. Heck, my mother loved my father so much she all-but died with him when he left. Maybe that's what love is but I guess I wouldn't know; I've never been sure if I love anyone. I still can't decide if I love - _loved_ - Peeta, and I'm becoming more and more certain that my feelings for Gale are less than romantic.

So, as one could guess, the prospect of a total stranger being 'madly and irrevocably in love with me' is daunting. I don't even know what love is.

Do I?

"Peeta," I mutter to myself, rubbing at my forehead again. "Did I love Peeta?"

Yes or no? How could I not know?! How could he be so sure of his feelings yet, a year after his death, I am here and I am _still_ considering whether I truly love - _loved_ - him back? I'd presume that I didn't love him, when you think of how much I fight to myself about whether or not I do but then, my insides tell me differently. I think of Peeta and feel warm.

Is that love?

"Are you okay, Katniss?" Finnick asks, turning to me. He's sat down in District 11's station, and wears a concerned frown and an attempt at a smile as he turns to me. He's been looking more and more put-down these days. I asked Haymitch about it but he said that Finnick looks the same to him. Not to me. "You've been thinking to yourself for the past hour."

I nod, not wanting to burden him with more than he already looks to be weighed down with; I can worry about my appointment, my tributes, my insomnia and my total and utter uselessness about love by myself. Maybe. Anyway, isn't the anniversary of Annie's death upcoming? "I'm okay, Finnick," I say. "Maybe I should be asking you that question."

Finnick runs a hand restlessly through his golden locks, which I can't help but notice look a little tatty and disheveled. He stays silent for a moment and pauses in his thought to send some food down to Gabriel, before looking to me with his famous eyes. They don't bore through me, as they usually do. Instead they _look_ at me, as if we are one in the same. "I'm okay," he replies, shrugging. "I didn't sleep or wash, is all. I'm feeling a little..."

I cut him off to save him the probable pain and embarrassment of admitting _those_ emotions aloud in a crowded room. "I know how you're feeling," I say, completely understanding through my previous encounters with clients. Then I find myself admitting, as if in consolation, "I didn't sleep last night either."

He smiles crookedly at me and I smile back, briefly, before looking to monitors again. Logan and Fiona are holed up in a sort of rock formation, which is effectively a waterless cove. They have been there for hours, now. I don't blame them; they are in a shelter near the stream, which is their only water source, and are hidden unless someone stumbles into their spot. It's perfect - much like mine and Peeta's cave.

I suppress any painful memories that rattle endlessly in my mind.

Suddenly, as Finnick glances back to the hologram map of the arena, he jumps forward and starts hitting his cheeks as he searches, desperately, for something in his mind.

"What is it?!" I ask hurriedly, feeling worry bloat abruptly in me like a blow fish.

Finnick glances at me. "Careers are approaching Gabriel," he says quickly. His fingers seek out the right buttons to request a gift. "Crap, crap...! Ah..." The options appear. He presses his hand to the screen, swishing past page after page as I watch the big, bleeping dot of the Career pack crawl closer and closer to Gabriel's rest spot...

"Finnick," I say in panic. "They're-"

"I know!" The pages keep flashing before his eyes. It becomes apparent he's not looking for just anything. "I... Ahah! Oh, thank God..."

I watch him click on some sort of biscuits - or crackers - called 'Sharkies'. Evidently, they are shaped as sharks, and the confusion which fogs my mind only grows denser as Finnick pilots the gift straight into Gabriel's lap. Then, he audibly breathes a sigh of relief and sits back - almost. The edge of tension still stiffens his body so he does not look as laid-back as he'd like other people to believe.

I start to consider that, maybe, I'm not just 'other people'.

"Why 'Sharkies'?" I ask, feeling completely mind-boggled. We watch as Gabriel opens his rucksack to tuck them inside, then stops to consider what he's been given.

Finnick leans forward, apparently not hearing my question. "Come on, Gabriel," he mutters. His face is filled with such an anxious anticipation that it only makes me feel like an even bigger block of worry; and a nuisance, too, because I cannot help in any way, shape or form.

I flicker my eyes back to my own station, where I see Logan and Fiona laughing over something sadly. I look back to Gabriel.

"Sharkies?" he asks himself, looking at the packet. "That seems like a waste of -"

I don't know what happens next. Something changes, that must is obvious, because his eyes bug and he scrambles to his feet, pushing everything into his bag. His movement, afterwards, is very slow and silent and deliberate and I know, I _know_, that somehow the 'Sharkies' have told him the Careers are nearby - and just in the nick of time, too; Gabriel only just manages to hide in a very narrow and very tight cluster of rocks when they blunder in, wiping blood off their faces and grinning.

"Did you see her _face, _Blade?" The girl who speaks is tall and clings to the Blade, the apparent leader, with such a might it seems to irritate him. Her face is narrow and her eyes are sharp; in fact, everything about this girl is sharp, from the way she speaks, the words she chooses and how she looks around, to the way her bones are formed under her tanned skin. Sharp is all she is - there is no other word for her.

I decide to call her Sword because swords are most-definitely sharp, much like the dagger she clutches in one hand which drips with blood; her new nickname fits with Blade's perfectly, which is extremely suitable considering that they are, very obviously, an item whom both come from the same District - District 1. Sword and Blade.

I repress the urge to scoff. "Damn, I'm so glad I got the final strike!" Sword wipes down her dagger with the bottom of her jacket, grinning sadistically. "That is by far our best kill yet."

Something stings me when the third of the four careers steps forward. Perhaps it hurts because I saw it coming, or because I wish I did. "How many have you killed so far, anyway?" the boy asks. Even though his hair is sopping from the hot, torrential rainfall from earlier, his face is dirt-streaked and his clothes are bloody, I can still recognise him as Tate. Perhaps it is his long, rugged hair or square jaw that makes him so distinctive, or maybe it's the sardonic smirk which pulls at his lips as he speaks. "Probably about half, right?"

_Half?_ Have I not been keeping track?! How many are dead now? The very thought makes my stomach bunch up.

Sword looks to Blade, who makes no attempt at responding. The air he gives off is chilly. So, she replies, "Around ten, I think." She gives a nonchalant shrug but, just then, the familiar boom of the cannon sets off and she smirks proudly. "We haven't really been keeping count!"

The four of them laugh - apart from Blade, of course. He only smiles in such a twisted way that it reminds me of Snow. That is when I know that he has to die no matter the cost; because this broken world does not need another Snow. It would lead to our destruction.

And hasn't Snow already ruined enough?

"Come on," Tate says. "They were back this way when I found them."

Sword looks to the way he indicates, then slinks away from Blade to lead to the way with her dagger drawn lazily at her side. She glances back at Tate, and her hair flutters around her face. "You better be right about this," she says, "or you'll be our next victim."

"They're there, all right?" he says in irritation. "Just keep going - and leave the boy to me."

_Leave the boy to me._

The words replay over and over in my head and, like a dream, I find myself leaning back slowly in my chair as my hearing checks out. Are they heading to the stream? Surely. Of course. I'd be naive to think otherwise. Tate would be so spiteful as to kill they very people that spared him; because they embarrassed him, evidently. It's not hard to decipher his thoughts. Logan and Fiona made him look weak on Capitol television, and now he wants to prove the pretence wrong. No doubt it has lost him sponsors.

Surprisingly, I do not go blind with rage or upset or shock. Instead, I go numb. I don't know why; I'd only be guessing if I said it's because of inevitability. The inevitability of Logan and Fiona's deaths. Deaths that I will be, in some ways, responsible for. Deaths I know I will feel carved into my heart for the rest of my life, soldered together with guilt, melancholy and crushed hope.

Deaths which now seem to be impossible to avoid. _Inevitable_.

"Katniss?" Finnick asks carefully.

I blink and look up to him. Something sits heavily in my chest and drips acidic longing in my gut. Longing for another ending. "He's going to kill them," I say, searching his face vacantly. "Logan and Fiona... They're going to die."

Finnick shakes his head vehemently and squeezes my hands; he is holding both of them in his, I realise, though for how long I don't know. "No, Katniss," he says. His knees knock against mine as he shuffles closer to me. "No. They'll be okay."

Why is he lying to me? The Careers are coming for them. Careers are trained killing machines; Logan and Fiona were both clueless about any form of combat before the Games. They will... They'll... "They'll die, Finnick," I say blandly. "The Careers will kill them in their sleep."

"No!" he denies. When I look away from him to watch Gabriel, who is still tucked inside the rocks to be sure the Careers have truly left, Finnick lifts his hand and cups my cheek to turn me do face him again. His warmth makes me tingle, as if electrified. "The Careers went after you, Katniss," he says, smiling something sadly soft, "and look where you are. Alive."

"I had experience," I say. "I used to hunt - and Peeta was looking out for me. I had Peeta..."

Finnick's eyes shine. "And they have each other," he says. "They are not going to die, Katniss. At least, not by the Careers' hands."

My heart feels like it's been pumped full of helium and a distant hope builds because, yes, who's to say the Careers _will_ kill Logan and Fiona? They have each other. They love each other; that can make people do crazy things. Things that they may not ordinarily do. Things like murder. Things will liberate them from the endlessness of the Hunger Games and send them into a world which, they realise, is no different.

Suddenly, my heart pops. The helium whooshes out and out and up into my head, which turns light and uncomfortable on my shoulders. Dizzy. "Is here any better though, Finnick?" I ask, feeling the numbness whack back into me. "Here is under Snow's control in his domain. Here is under captivity. You know how people have been speaking of Logan, Finnick. If he's the one to come out, you know Snow will make him sell hims-"

Finnick silences me suddenly by leaning forward and smashing his lips on mine. I fall backwards, caught of guard from the impact, and stare at him with wide eyes. He just shrugs. "You kept talking," he says. "Talking about worries which are insignificant right now."

"You shouldn't have kissed me," is all I say. "What if Snow saw - sees?"

His eyes turns dark. "Then we get a warning," he says. "I'm sorry. I didn't think, I suppose."

"No, you didn't," I say. However, regardless of what that kiss could mean and what it could do to us and our families, I find a smile tweaking at my lips because his kiss has somehow made me feel better. Less bombarded, as if everything is much simpler than I was seeing. "I'm glad you didn't think, though."

Finnick smiles back at me. "Please stop worrying about Logan and Fiona," he says. "I know it's a mentor's prerogative and you can't help but fret over the slightest thing but... just don't let it control you. You can help them, after all. You can tell them about the Careers."

"How can I possibly do that?! I'm out here!" And right now, as insane as it sounds, I wish I wasn't. I wish I was in the Games so I can protect Logan and Fiona and shred this skin of uselessness. Never have I thought I'd want to go back in - to relive the Hunger Games - but right now... I would do anything to keep them alive. To save my hands from being bloodied by yet another death which falls, by default, into my hands because we all know that there is something I could have done to save them. Even if my death is the means. "I'm out here, Finnick..."

How can his smile be so dazzling, even at a time like this? It radiates such an adamant and hopeful shine that I can actually feel my spirit picking up. I wonder if his insides are as bright as his outsides. Probably not. In fact, I know they aren't. They can't be. "Like I did," he supplies, "with the 'Sharkies'."

My face must read the complete and utter overwhelming confusion I'm feeling inside, because his smile widens into a crooked grin and he continues, "Sharks, Katniss. In District 4, when you go fishing, they're a constant danger. I hoped Gabriel would pick up on the fact that I used a shark-shaped snack as a sign for danger."

The fog of confusion blows away like the wisp of a forgotten memory. "And he did," I say, finally understanding. "That's how he knew to hide."

Finnick nods, looking pleased. I realise now that he is happy because Gabriel is alive, and hope that he may stay that way cages Finnick in a world where his emotions are as fragile as a glass sheet because they have been elevated by a flush of good news. In that world though, hope, which is the main benefactor of all good feelings, is the most crushable of all because disappointment is such a heavy blow. "We can do the same for Logan and Fiona," he says. "What kind of dangers do your people face?"

After a moment of thinking, I laugh bitterly because so many come to mind. "Starvation," I start with. "Dehydration. Grief. Suicide. Mine collapses. Fires."

The sorrow and pain which audibly weighs down Finnick's heart is tangible, and suddenly I feel bad for unleashing such knowledge of suffering. Not that he doesn't know of it already; in fact, Finnick cares more about the tragedies of 12 than any other person from another District I know; apart from, maybe, those in 11 or 10, because they go through similar - though lessened - disasters. "Maybe we can use fires to communicate with them," is all he says, "or collapses in the mines."

My mind flashes back to my father, and suddenly I feel heavy. "Sure, Finnick," I say. "Whatever you think is-"

"Move it, sweetheart!" Haymitch gruffly exclaims, stumbling over to me and dragging me up from the chair. I'm so startled by his sudden appearance that my body does not protest, and instead I only watch as Haymitch slumps down in _my_ - or, my previous - seat. "I want out!"

My head is hurting. Not throbbing like a fresh bump or stinging like a cut but aching consistently, tense and distant. I wonder just how long it has been like that. "What do you mean, _out_? Out of what?" My legs are a little prickly because I've been sat down for so long, so now I'm standing I shuffle around to get the blood flowing.

Haymitch rubs tiredly at his eyes then looks to me. "Christ, sweetheart, what do you think?! I want out of that godforsaken room!"

Am I slow because I'm also exhausted, or because this is who I am? "The Shark room?" I ask to be sure.

Haymitch scoffs. "Yes, sweetheart, the Shark room." He looks to Finnick, who is sitting back with one headphone sitting lopsidedly on one ear so he can hear us speak. He looks vaguely amused and his smirk reads as much but he simply twiddles his thumbs as Haymitch asks him, "Has she eaten yet?"

Finnick looks to me and cocks his head. "About an hour ago." He turns back to Haymich and, chuckling, asks, "Is there meant to be an hourly feeding time?"

The latter's laugh is bellowing and guttural, and reeks pungently of seductive whisky. It's caustic in the air and brittle, as if I can touch it... "Just throw her a few chips and she'll be happy!"

I ignore him. "Haymitch," I say angrily, looking him over with hot eyes. His clothes are ragged and are not tucked in and, even when sitting, he is slumped over and is shrinking down like even _sitting_ is hard for him. Something buzzes through my veins. "Are you drunk?!"

He looks to me whilst I glance at Finnick, who looks about as amused as I am. "Depends," Haymitch slurs, and I notice that his eyes are half-lidded, "if you classify this as drunk. See, _sweetheart_, I'm not _paralytic._"

So, he's still bitter about that. "We were just saying the truth, Haymitch!" The buzzing in my veins grows feisty and I can feel it igniting an excitement in my heart. "And you're certainly heading in that direction. What the hell were you thinking? Did you not even take into account how it would affect Logan and Fiona's survival?!"

Haymitch's face flushes pink and he rocks forward, slamming his glass on the side. A few droplets spray over him but he ignores it, glaring hatefully at me. The buzzing freezes. "Don't you _dare_," he starts darkly, "accuse me of that. I want them out as much you damn-well do!"

"Yet you go and do _this,_ Haymitch! _This!_" I furiously indicate in his direction, feeling my veins reignite. "Damn it, _why?_ Why the hell would you do this?!"

His voice is a roar in a crash of water. "Why don't you go find out!?" he spits. "Go on, you go swim with the sharks, sweetheart. I'll make sure Logan and Fiona do fine without you."

Even through my anger, the idea of talking to those people makes my throat close up and I can feel my head starting to swim with calamitous speculations - but my fury is beyond my fear. "_Fine!__" _I bite back, and turn on my heels. My footsteps stab into the taut silence of the room. I ignore the lingering eyes of other mentors and victors which sear into my skin and leave me feeling naked, and march from the room.

The Shark room is a whole other world. From the moment I push open the door and take two steps in, I can feel it. The atmosphere. It's thick and stuffy, like the abiding remnants of smoke from a heavy cigar, and for a moment I'm paralysed; the bustle of the room is suffocating, and even more so are the eyes. They scorch through me and parch my bare skin, indissolubly scratching and scarring my polluted insides. These eyes don't only hover over me differently but they feel different, too. Hungry. Repulsive. Greasy.

I attempt to swallow whatever has gripped at my tongue and festooned over the back of my throat. It does not work. I can feel whatever was living in my veins start to throb and tremble, then spark and blow and cut off like a fuse. For a moment, I am in the dark, searching blindly for a light I will not find, even though neon Capitolites putter about the walls and laugh at me and let their eyes strip me bare as opposed to guiding me into a place I will feel safe. Into a place I will feel calm, and free. Like the woods.

Instead, they take advantage of my vulnerability and use me over and over and over-

"Katniss." Finnick's hand lands on my shoulder, and I subconsciously step into him. "Are you okay?"

"I recognise some of them." My voice is small and so unlike me that it reminds me, somewhat, of Prim, which of course only makes the longing and the fear and the hurt in my heart ebb in relentless recognition. People are looking at us. "I know some of them. Finnick..."

He does not hug me. In fact, he drops his arm from my shoulder and smirks at me. It looks wrong, as wrong as I feel. Darkness blots my insides. "I'm sorry, Katniss," he says. His eyes shine in sorrow; a need for forgiveness but his smirk stays in place. "I can't help. I'm... I can't. Not here."

So, this is it. I get to see the mask of Finnick Odair in play. That is why he is smirking. That is why he is distant. "I understand," I say, and clear my throat. "I do. This is the pretence and everything for Snow. You've probably lied to some of these people more times than you can count, huh? You've probably told them you love them." Why does that make my heart thump? "Any sort of communication which appears more than polite with me..."

"It could ruin everything." Finnick looks more helpless than I can remember ever seeing him. "I'm sorry."

I shake my head and blink heavily, pushing back all the turbulence so I turn numb. "No, it's okay," I say, nodding fiercely, though my insides feel rotten and gnarled. "It's okay. I have a façade to keep up, too."

"Just breathe, Katniss." Finnick soothes without touch, though his words are like a caress. "Just breathe and clear your mind. Don't think too much. Remember that I am right here whenever you need me. Come find me if it gets too much. Just don't give the game away."

I nod. "Don't give the game away..." I mutter, feeling my expression harden into the indifference I so often use against my clients. "Don't give the game away..."

"You're happy to see them," Finnick says. We start walking forward. "There's no hard feelings. Go along with everything they say."

"Let me guess..." I look up at him with my gut churning. "That's lesson 2?"

Finnick smiles sadly. "Exactly," he says. "Lesson 2: Improvisation."

"This is what I'm worst at," I say worriedly.

"You'll be fine. Just go along with what they say for now - whilst it's still enough."

"What?!" _Whilst it's still enough?!_ "I - Finnick-"

Finnick quickly hushes me and we stop about a meter from the main congregation. "I just meant that in a year or so, Snow will expect you to do more than act and submit to their wishes. He'll expect you to lead."

My mouth goes dry and I stare up at him with tight eyes. "You mean... Start it off? Start off the conversation and the sex? Tell them I love them and lust them and want _nothing more than to stay with them?_"

He nods. "Exactly that," he says. Just then, there's a loud screech and fluid waves from the right, and I know that Finnick is being beckoned. "We'll talk more later. I've got to go."

"Goodbye, Finnick."

When he leaves me alone, I'm left to spy out any people that I may know so I can convince them that Logan and Fiona are the strong ones; the way to go; the ones to sponsor. Knowing that I am doing this for them and not so people can buy me for their own selfish needs has the knot of dread in my stomach loosening. I'm just talking to people, after all. Maybe there's a little flirting but that's not so bad. I'll be okay.

Silently preparing myself to muster courage to approach a complete stranger and flare up a conversation, I head over to the buffet table and fetch a drink - non-alcoholic, though I'm starting to understand why and how Haymitch got so drunk if he feels like I do. Maybe I should say sorry but not right now. Right now I'm-

"Did you see them together? Katniss and Finnick?"

"Of course."

"Christ, I've never seen her in person before. How much did you say she is?"

My muscles tighten and I feel my heart stop beating. _They're talking about me! _Oh, God. I knew I'd probably hear this - or maybe I didn't - but I didn't expect it to sound so... _acrimonious_. Dirty.

I slowly turn around and sip my drink, though it feels bitter and tastes just as vile to me. My eyes surreptitiously locate the source of the conversation; two men, one with green hair and the other-

My heart stops. It's Mr. Rhineheart, the man whose acquaintance I am supposed to be meeting tonight. I know him by face; Snow had said in the letter that, "He is a man of great importance so I _must_ please him or else Prim's head will be on his mantelpiece faster than I can scream her name," and sent me a picture of him for future reference, and to ensure there is no nastiness ongoing around him.

He looks as grotesque, perhaps even more so, than he did in the picture.

"Oh..." Mr. Rhineheart's filthy gaze lingers on me for far too long, and I squash the urge to squirm. "I'm not sure. Money is not so much an issue for me any more, so I bought her without asking. It's cheaper if you sponsored her in her Games; Snow says she calls it 'compensation.'"

"Compensation?" The other man laughs but, as opposed to joyful, it sounds tangled and malignant. "Perhaps I will call for mine."

They are both staring at me now. I'm not sure I can move; I'm routed to the spot, out of both disgust and self-loathing. I want to run - run away and _never_ come back - but I know I can't, so I am locked here in this place to this spot, because I know if I move I will run. And I will get another warning from Snow, or perhaps he will just punish me, regardless. Perhaps he will pull through on his promise and murder Prim.

My blood runs cold. I sip at my drink and stay still like a petrified lamb.

"Why not get both Katniss and Finnick?" Mr. Rhineheart asks his friend. "I'm planning to."

"Buy them both? You mean at the same time?"

Mr. Rhineheart smiles crookedly. "And why not?" he says. "They're yours to command when you have them."

"Well, yes, but I'm not gay. Buying Finnick would be pointless for me."

"Who said you were buying him to _have_ him?" Mr. Rhineheart asks. His voice is slick and casual but calculated, and I know what he will continue to say will disgust me. "Do you realise how much people would pay to see the girl on fire and Finnick Odair-"

Oh, God. Oh, God. No! No, no no no no! How can they take something so twisted and revolting as prostitution and make it into something even _more_ contorted and abhorrent? Not only that but _humiliating_. Are they seriously suggesting that they _film_ Finnick and I having - doing...

My stomach tightens again. I feel nausea overwhelm me, and down my drink. I pour a glass of the hardest whisky I can find to drown out - no, not to drown out. Just to drown. To forget...

I'm suddenly forced back into the real world, where I'm forced to acknowledge that I have Logan and Fiona to consider. So, I tell myself I will have one glass. This glass. This one little glass of whisky to help me get through this horrid night.

"A video like that would sell for thousands," Mr. Rhineheart's friend agrees, "but if President Snow finds out-"

Mr. Rhineheart scoffs. "Oh, please. I'll make sure he doesn't and then, if he miraculously does find out, it wont be us that pays. It will be them."

"Them? As in Finnick and Katniss?"

I can see Rhineheart's irritation simmering behind his eyes but he only smiles. "Who else?" he asks smoothly. He reminds me eerily of Snow. "Why do you think they go around screwing everything with legs?"

The friend shrugs but smirks. "Compensation?" he asks.

Mr. Rhineheart's laugh is somewhat loud and somewhat amused but it is also fake. "No, Ignacio! _Threats._ Snow gives them a choice: their loved ones or their body."

"And of course," the man named Ignacio says, "they choose their loved ones."

Rhineheart smiles fleetingly. "Correct. So they are forced until told otherwise to give their bodies to endless strangers."

Ignacio looks sceptical. "What if they tell the President?" he asks. "If Katniss and Finnick tell him what we made them do-"

"Then Snow will punish them regardless because they let it happen." Rhineheart looks proud, as if he's got it all figured out. "And if Katniss and Finnick do not comply, then we will file a rather large and serious complaint, which will result in them getting punished. Of course, punished is synonymous to 'have a loved one brutally tortured, then killed'."

Ignacio nods, as if this is obvious. "Of course," he agrees. "So, you've got it all figured out?"

"Oh yes." Rhineheart's smile is cruel. It curdles my insides as I look up at him, and our eyes briefly lock on one another. His are black and endless. I know, now, that he knows I have heard everything he has said. That it was his intention for me to hear everything; to know that no matter what, there is no escaping what he has in store for Finnick and I. "All it takes is time."

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**I never get time to proof-read my chapters, so sorry for any mistakes!**


	23. The Hungry Twenty-Two (Smut)

**HERE IT IS! The chapter. Hopefully what's included in this chapter is something you've been waiting for, else I don't really have an idea why you're still here. THAT DOESN'T MEAN YOU SHOULD STOP READING. I'm not complaining or anything.**

**So, hello! This is just to say that I hope you enjoy the chapter and to give a huge thank you for the reviews you guys give me; they really help me focus and know what is what! And, yo'know, they all mean a lot to me. You guys are just incredible. Welcome, also, to a few new readers I have noticed! I'd wave ecstatically at you but I'm afraid this is on the internet and on the internet I have no hands. Or arms. Nothing, really. Just a few words.**

**Anyway, I'm sorry about the chat with the driver at the beginning of this chapter. I don't know what it is, it just kind of happened. It was meant to be a two-second thing and well... you'll see. Tell me if you like it; I, for one, am ambivalent about it. I don't know.**

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**IMPORTANT NOTE: If you do not like lemon scenes - you know, sex and smut and what else - stop reading when it says this: _'More scarlet heat floods my face but I stand tall and say, "Yes. That."'_**

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Rhineheart is not there when I arrive at his house. When I ring the bell, a servant answers and informs me of his absence but tells me to wait around because surely, _surely_, he'll arrive. So, I wait an hour, perhaps two, in his disgustingly large house with his crystal chandeliers and a buffet I'm sure is there 24/7. I wait in silence, all alone, listening to the tick of the clock as a nervousness and a fury and a dead-like endlessness folds my insides. And yet, he does not show. Not in the pointless hours I wait for him.

I try deciding whether him not showing is a good thing; after all, it saves me from another encounter I'm sure would have fed me misery but it has also wasted my time and, whilst I would much rather sit in a mansion built for one in a stew of resentment, I can't help but wonder if I'll get the blame; if somehow Rhineheart will make it seem like it's _my _fault the appointment has not gone as planned. The unpredictability of the consequences his absence could cause - consequences which will, no doubt, fall onto me - are much worse than the consequences of sleeping with yet another Capitolite; the self-hatred, the humiliation, the lies and the trauma my prostitution can cause is rough and makes me feel a thousand pounds heavier but the punishment for not sleeping around - for disobeying the terms of my prostitution - are much greater. Rhineheart's absence, and therefore my lack of doing my job, could break the terms of that prostitution.

Yet I feel nothing as I think of Rhineheart.

The servant eventually lets me ring Snow's office but Snow, too, is apparently too busy to speak with me or have _anything_ to do with me, so I leave a message with his secretary. She tells me to leave; that Rhineheart will be fined for his complete and utter tardiness; he has wasted time. Time other Capitolites - other clients - could have had me in. She says all of this very professionally and without a care in the world, and I wonder is she is a client; if she has ever bought a Victor.

I try not to let the idea consume me. Power is too corrupt as it is, and Snow's secretary definitely has power.

Though I insist on walking back to the Tribute Tower for contemplation and air and some time for myself, the servant doesn't let me. Something about compensation - I don't know, I don't really hear which is weird considering my mind is filled only with silence. Still, I find myself clambering into a long, sleek car after the driver opens the door for me. I know he is just doing his job and being chivalrous but it makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel above him. I am not above him, not by a long shot. I have killed people and I give my body away daily in the hopes that I wont lose people which mean the world to me - which is selfish, really; I know my family would not want me to be selling myself and would sacrifice themselves to save me the misery, so am I being selfish by denying their wishes so I can live in peace with them, at least for a little while?

Of course I am. This whole thing is selfish; really, none of this is Snow's fault. Were I not selfish, I would not be in this mess - but I am. And selfishness is a very big flaw, so how can the driver possibly be below me?

"Are you all right, ma'am?" he asks, glancing at me in the mirror.

I meet his eyes. "I should be driving you," I say blandly, and look away to tug on the hem of my dress. "You are a better person than me. Roles should be like that, shouldn't they? The bad people serve the good."

The driver smiles kindly. "I'm sure you're not a bad person, ma'am," he says, "and yes, perhaps bad people should serve those better than them - but power doesn't work like that."

"It should." If it did, Snow would not be in power and I would not be forced into selfishness. "It really should."

The driver takes a while to reply. He flicks something underneath the wheel and there's a clicking which fills the silence, then we turn and he flicks it off. He glances at me in the mirror again. "Maybe so," he says, "but you're forgetting about redemption."

I blink. Feel myself pause in my thought. "Redemption..."

"Of course." He smiles toothily at me. "Redemption. For example, say a may who committed adultery was to serve a couple who were wholly faithful to one another but did not love each other, who is the bad there?"

"The cheater." How could it not be? "The couple are being honest. They're not doing anything wrong."

The driver only smiles, which makes me kick myself because there is _something_ about that smile which tells me I have got the answer wrong. So, the cogs start turning and I stare hard at my lap, feeling my eyebrows furrow. I think about honesty and faith; the couple are being faithful but are they being honest? No. I wouldn't say so. They are lying to each other and themselves, whist the adulterer never lied to himself.

"No, it's the couple," I say. "Of course it's the couple. They're the bad."

The driver smiles _again_. "Why?" he asks.

I tell him. I tell him about honesty and trust and faith.

"The adulterer wasn't honest to his wife, though, ma'am" the driver says. "Only honest to himself because he knew he didn't love nor lust his wife, so he turned from her and, in doing so, was dishonest to her and hurt her. Now who's the bad?"

My face falls. "I..."

"What I'm trying to say, ma'am, with all respect is that people aren't black and white. There's good and bad in everything and everyone. That's why the bad don't work for the good or vice versa; it's too controversial; there's too much to consider."

Exhaustion is weighing down on me suddenly, and I rub at the space between my eyebrows. "I never thought about it like that."

The driver's gaze is lingering on me, curious and concerned. "We're here, ma'am. We've been here for a while." He is right; the Tribute Tower is right outside. "I hope you don't think of yourself as bad any more because, trust me, ma'am, you're not."

"Redemption," I say suddenly, looking up at him and feeling something oily spread in my chest. "You mentioned redemption but never explained how it fits into that scenario. So, how does it fit in?"

"Oh, ma'am, that's simple really." He physically turns to face me this time, his dark hand hooking around the back of the chair, and says, "Now you can see that the good are just as bad as the bad and vice versa, you've got to think about how they'll redeem themselves for what they've done wrong."

I realise, with a sense of confusion and nervousness, that I am sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting in angst for his answer. I know it means a lot to me, though I wish it did not mean as much as I know - as I can feel - it does because that would mean this whole thing does not affect me like I think it does, or that maybe I'll wake up and this will just be a horrible dream. I know this is reality though, however much I can fool myself into thinking otherwise, and I also know that his answer will benefit me in some way and make me feel like I'm not such a bad person and that perhaps I can be redeemed. Is there anything to redeem, though? _Is_ this mess down to me and my selfishness, or is it down to Snow's heartlessness, thirst for money, thirst for power and his need for dominion over the Victors?

"If the supposedly bad people work for the supposedly good people, the bad will redeem themselves perhaps a hundred times over by earning it." He adjusts his suit, then turns back to the front. "The good, however, will not. They'll just keep doing bad things and never making up for them, whilst they sit in a seat of power over those who are deemed to be wrong-doers."

"So you're saying that everyone needs redemption?" I ask, feeling horrendously confused. "That everyone's both bad and good? That not everyone can redeem themselves and nor do they want to?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, ma'am," he says. "That doesn't make them bad people, though. You understand?"

Surprisingly, I do. The fog of confusion I thought had enveloped me into a state of hopelessness is suddenly rendered weak, and my voice is filled with certainty. "Yes," I reply. "I do. You're saying nothing's black and white, though some things and some people turn more black or more white when put in places of power."

The driver smiles dazzlingly. "That's it precisely."

"What about vulnerability, though?" Raising an eyebrow at him, I continue, "Can't people also be turned more black or white when put in places of vulnerability?"

For a change, the driver is the one who looks thoughtful for a moment. "Yes, ma'am," he says, smiling suddenly. "They certainly can. Everything has the power to be corrupt when put in... taxing situations."

Feeling much lighter now and much better about myself, I look gratefully at the man who drove me. "What's your name?" I ask him.

He purses his lips. "That doesn't matter ma'am. You have a nice night."

The look on his face tells me not to persist, so I don't. I only thank him sincerely, not able to communicate just how much he has helped me, then climb out of the car. Cold air swarms around my bare skin and skirts up my legs. Somehow, it feels oddly relaxing, and I find myself smiling fleetingly at the driver as I wave goodbye to him and he honks back at me, before I turn on my heels and stride into the Tribute Tower.

And of course, I bump straight into Finnick Odair. Literally.

"Oh, dammit! I'm sorry!" I say hurriedly, steadying myself and blinking at the floor. "Crap, that hurt."

Finnick's arms reach out and clamp onto mine. "It's fine," he says. He is as steady as a rock, which I guess I should have expected because that's what it felt like bumping into him: like I was bumping into a six foot boulder. It must be all that muscle... "Don't worry about it, Katniss."

I look up at him. I wonder if I'm noticeably exhausted, or if I just feel it. "Okay. Sorry."

Finnick doesn't seem to hear me, however, because he's too busy looking at the time. Whatever he sees makes him frown, and something similar to realisation or confusion settles over his expression. "You're back?" he asks, looking down at me. "You're back-"

"Early," I finish, smiling stiffly. "Yes. He didn't show up."

Finnick looks as a little incredulous as I say this and glances around as if this is a joke. It's not though, and so he leans in close to me and says, "And yet you were there for two hours."

I ignore the way he smells of mint and the sea - a scent which fades the more time he spends away from his District - and instead I shrug but it feels arduous, as if the weight in my chest is pulling my shoulders down. "I was told to wait and see in case he was late."

"And you waited two hours?"

The conviction in his voice makes me squirm but nevertheless, I look up at him and nod. "Yes," I say. "Wouldn't you?"

Finnick turns the idea over in his mind. I watch things - thoughts, emotions, scenarios - stray in his eyes and cloud them, before that cloud turns dark and something hard settles across his expression. Then he blinks and it's gone, and he looks to me once more. "Yes," he says, like I knew he would; if we left without waiting around for a client, would our loved ones' lives be on the line? "I would have waited."

Smiling sourly, as if my cheeks have been pinched, I choose to remain silent. Silence seems like the best call. We stand there, hovering in a build of awkwardness, the cause of which is unbeknownst to me, before I feel something drip onto the back of my hand. Water. "What in the-" I look up to Finnick, who is grinning, and finally notice that he is wet. "You're wet," I say.

His grin gets wider and he nods. "I was just a the gym, so I had a shower down there afterwards. Did you not notice?"

"Apparently not." Why does this feel so awkward? What is wrong with us - or, perhaps, with me? _People are not just black and white._ "So... I should..."

Finnick seizes my wrist as I start to walk away and turns me to face him. "No, wait," he says, looking a little sheepish. "There's something I want to show you."

Something he wants to show me? Oh. Perhaps _that_ is why it was awkward between us; he didn't know how to say it - how to tell me. The thought almost makes me laugh because Finnick Odair is _never_ lost for words or tongue-tied or clueless, yet here he is standing in front of me, looking impish and even a little nervous. "Sure, Finnick," I say. "I'll take a look."

Finnick only smiles, and holds open the door to me. The night air swoops in. "After you," he says, and I try not to think that he is the second man this night who has opened a door for me...

It certainly doesn't mean they are below me. Perhaps, in some ways, it means they are above.

* * *

We have been walking for about ten minutes now, through the dark blanket of the night-time version of the Capitol which is still, really, just as alive as it is in the daytime. Bright lights, bustle from buildings and obscure fashion sense. It's all the same. Yet Finnick Odair, who looks all the more pleased with himself as we walk, claims to have found a _nice _place in this hell-hole. _How on earth...?_

"Where are you taking me?" I ask sceptically, eyeing up the tall, marble building we are heading to - which, I notice warily, is attached to a very tall cliff.

Finnick. Oh, Finnick. He is so mysterious and enigmatic that I find it hard to truly understand him at times but that's what is so fascinating about him, so likeable. He's both an open and a closed book, which really shouldn't work and should even be irritating - but it's not because it's _Finnick._ The sea-green eyed, smirking, trident-wielding joker from District 4. It makes him. It completes him. It's Finnick, all and all.

Finnick raises an eyebrow at me, smirking. "Now, that would be telling," he says. I find it increasingly hard to get irritated and only smile. "Besides, we're here."

'Here' happens to be said marble building (which evidently is called '_The Hunger Hotel'), _and as I stare up at it's gleaming walls and way-too-colourful interior, the feeling of a personal form of Hell creeps up on me. There are purple trees and plastic duck figurines, for some stupid reason.

I cast a disgusted and disappointed glance at Finnick. "Here?" I ask with furrowed eyebrows. "Really?"

He grins. "Really," he agrees. "Don't worry, I only wanted to show you one thing here." Keeping completely nonchalant, Finnick walks over to the front door and _climbs_ into the foliage.

I laugh, shaking my head. "What the hell are you doing?" I cry. "Get out of there, Odair."

Finnick ignores me and crouches over the ducks, tapping on his chin. Then he picks up the biggest, bluest duck figurine I have ever seen and jumps back over the fence to me, where he hands me it. "This is it," he says, completely serious. "This is what I wanted to show you."

My eyes scan him for any sign of a lie or a joke but I see none - I only find complete soberness in his gaze - so I inwardly shrug and instead, eye up the duck sceptically. When I see nothing but the plastic crap the duck is made from on the outside, I decide maybe there's something on the inside and shake it . Nothing.

So, clueless, I look to Finnick and try to smile. It feels more like a grimace but I don't want to upset him - or, more likely, offend him. "It's... cute," I try, completely out of my league. What do you do when someone hands you a large, blue duck figurine? "I like the colour."

"Yeah?" Finnick eyes glimmer in amusement - and that's when I realise he's screwing with me. "Well, I like your lies. Very unconvincing."

I laugh briefly before my eyes narrow and I slap him, hard, on the arm. "Dammit, Finnick!" I cry - but even as I do, the laughter seeps into my words. "You had me doubting your sanity."

"I was worried about your sanity, too, when you took me seriously." He chuckles as well. "How didn't you know was playing? Did you seriously think I'd drag you all the way here for a stupid duck figurine?"

Shrugging, I say, "Stranger things have happened," because they have. Finnick Odair is an enigma; I don't understand how his mind works! How am I to know if he'd drag me on a walk through the night to see a duck? Actually, perhaps it is fairly obvious that that is something Finnick would never show me. Why _ducks_, of all things? Finnick wouldn't show me a duck. If he did, it would probably be a live one, and only to have it nip at my hair and chase me around the room.

The thought makes me smile.

"Come on," Finnick says, taking my hand. I fleetingly notice that it makes me feel safe. "What I actually wanted to show you is inside the hotel."

The Hunger Hotel, it becomes quickly apparent, is a themed. Like the Hunger Games. There are forest rooms and desert rooms, water rooms and rock rooms. There is even some rooms designed around _one_ Victor. I am one of those victors. 'The Katniss Everdeen room.' I wonder what is in there; is my face plastered around the walls, or perhaps mine and Peeta's faces? Is the room like a woods or is it like a cave? I'm not sure I even want to find out.

Knowing now just what kind of a place Finnick is dragging me into, I don't protest about entering but I also don't follow him as willingly as he leads me; knowing him, he'd probably re-enact the duck situation with a different object _just_ to further embarrass me. Well, I'm not embarrassed. He can throw that plan back to where it came from. "Why here?" I ask, looking at the stone walls which have been moulded into the shape of caves and the fountains which look like streams.

Finnick nods his hello to the receptionist and drags me into the lift. "My favourite one is here - and it's closest, too." He shrugs but his eyes stare down at me, tight in concentration. _The closest what?_ "If it bothers you that the hotel is based around the Hunger Games, we can go."

"No," I say quickly. "I want to see what you want to show me."

The tightness of his eyes lessens and he smiles down at me. "Well good," he says. "I hope you don't mind heights."

Heights don't bother me. I climb trees when hunting and that needs some sort of tolerance with heights. Gale always used to say that he is too big to climb trees, not lean or small enough. Too heavy. I used to wonder if it was because he hates heights but then, he started climbing the trees with perfect ease at my side. I don't know what changed. Perhaps he gained more muscle than he already had or conquered his questionable fear, that being said because I don't actually know if he's afraid of heights, or maybe his perspective on himself changed.

Perhaps it was because his perspective of _me_ changed.

The next few seconds in the lift are silent, though Finnick still holds my hand in his. When the doors ping open, however, he grins and instead of holding my hand, tugs on it to pull me out of the lift like an excited child. It reminds me of Prim and when I bought her her goat, though I push the thought away - or maybe it just vanishes. Vanishes out of shock. Shock which strikes me because of what I am looking at.

I am standing in a glass room. A glass room which is swallowed in the cliff-side, and opens up to the moon and the stars. The familiarity of the sight - of seeing something I sit and stare at high up in the canopy of the woods in District 12 - makes me feel stuffy and my throat closes. I hadn't realised how much I am missing home - like an ache. I want to hug my mother and my sister and even Gale, who I am dreading returning to. The stars only makes the longing stronger, harder to ignore, and I step slowly out into the middle of the room with my breath caught in my throat. The emotion waking inside of me shakes my hands.

Finnick is looking at me. "You like it?" he asks, smiling softly.

I nod, glancing at him. "It's beautiful," I tell him, and I notice that my voice is just as fogged with my compassion as my eyes are. "It reminds me of home."

Finnick is silent for a moment, looking up to the stars with me. "I come here a lot. To think." I hear him laugh; I don't see it, because the stars have enraptured me. "I guess this is more important to me than I let on."

I walk over to Finnick and take his hand again with a smile. "Thank you for showing me this," I say, and I mean it with every bone in my body; stars are a rare sight in the Capitol because there is always blaring neon lights which hide their shine but up here, where it is silent and free and empty in the best possible way, the only light to fill the space comes from the dim spotlights which line the room - just enough to be able to see where you're going. "I mean it."

"There's more," he says. He pulls me over to a door which I had not seen before, and leads me onto the cliff. I'm somewhat glad and disappointed that the owners of the hotel have smoothed the cliff so it's easier for walking; glad because I am wearing heels and it is very difficult to walk on a bumpy rock side when in heels; and disappointed because I want to sit on the cliff and feel it beneath me - _real_. Everything in the Capitol is so artificial that when you find something as real as this...

It is not the cliff Finnick is showing me, I realise, though it is nice to feel the stroke of the night air against my flushed skin. Finnick is showing me the water.

Embedded into the cliff, the colour of turquoise and following the outline of the cliff, is a pool. It is wide and glassy, settled in the quiet of the night. It isn't rectangular nor circular but instead follows a path of it's own, pressing right up to the edge then folding out into the main body of the cliff. I realise that this is, perhaps, the only connection with his home Finnick can find. His only connection with water.

It reminds me of the lake my dad showed me when I was young, for some reason. And under the stars which remind me, too, of my District... I feel more at home than I have in a long time.

"How did you find this place?" I ask, looking to him with what I know are wide eyes, and feeling so elated inside I may burst. "This is..."

Finnick's lips quirk. "I know," he says. "And I asked around for a swimming pool. This is the closest one, and it was the most recommended."

"I can see why." How could I not? This place transports you into a whole new world - kind of like the arena only under much different circumstances. And better ones, too. "I can't believe you took me here. Thank you."

"Why wouldn't I take you here?" Finnick cocks his head at me and smiles, and it makes my chest go weird and wonderful. I have known him for a year, now, and yet the _Finnick Odair_ effect still takes it's toll on me. He doesn't answer his own question, nor let me answer it for him. "Come on, girl on fire, I want to see you swim."

I watch Finnick start to strip off his top. Something dark burns my insides, and I take a shaky step backwards as if in a trance. I cannot get caught up in him! Not now - not _ever._ I have Gale. _Gale Gale Gale Gale Gale-_

"I don't know how you're going to swim in a dress, Katniss," he teases. "I brought you here to swim."

Self-consciousness suddenly seeps through my infatuation with my surroundings. I clear my throat awkwardly. "I'm okay," I say, waving to the pool. How come I can let random Capitolites strip me down but I can't strip in front of Finnick? "You swim. I'll watch."

Finnick laughs. "That's not even slightly possible." His shoes are off now, too. And his socks. "You're not afraid of a bit of water, are you?"

"No." What am I afraid of? That he'll see my body and cringe? He's already seen it once. I chew my lip, feeling anxious. Then I sigh. "All right, I'll swim," I tell him.I bend down and pull off my heels, one after the other. "I'll swim."

"Good." Off come his trousers. I look away as he strips his underwear and focus on unzipping my dress. Of course, in my nervousness I have forgotten I cannot undo it by myself.

"Do we have to be completely nude?" I ask, trying not to cringe. "Why aren't we swimming in underwear?"

Is he close to me? he feels close to me. I can feel his warmth invading me, seeping into my skin... "You can swim in your underwear if you want, girl on fire," he says. His breathe blows over my collarbone and his fingers close over mine. He starts to slowly unzip my dress. "Of course, that will leave them soaking wet and, trust me, that is not a nice feeling."

I know it isn't. I have felt it before.

Perhaps nudity is inevitable. "All right," I say, softly this time. I peel the dress away from me and let it puddle around my bare feet. _Nude. I can do this. I do it every damn time I shower._

With a sort of writhing dread in my stomach, one that feels strangely giddy, I carefully unhook my bra and slide it off my arms. Then I do the same with my underwear.

Vulnerability strikes me straight in the gut so, before I can regret stripping or Finnick can really see anything, I jump into the pool. It is cold but not as cold as I had thought it would be; it is worth the stripping and the insecurity and _more._ The feeling of gliding through water, letting it envelop you wholly as if you are just a counterpart in it's fluid motion, is not one I have felt in a long time. It makes me feel free. It makes me feel alive.

Surfacing, I feel an easy grin slip onto my face as emotions zap through me. Finnick is at my side, grinning. He looks like I feel. Exhilarated. "Are we even allowed to swim nude here?" I ask with a laugh, though I don't really care and probably wouldn't get out if asked.

Finnick shrugs, his smile widening. I think about when I have seen this happy.

I don't think I _have_ seen him this happy.

The thought sends a pang of hurt radiating through me.

"I know the owner because I've been here so much," Finnick says. "He'll probably want to join us more than anything, as opposed to kicking us out."

He _knows_ the owner? "He's a client?" I ask hesitantly.

Finnick runs his fingers over the surface of the water before looking at me. It sounds like he's ripped through it, almost gently. "Yes," he says after a moment. "Yes, he is."

There is a silence. We swim around for a while, then float, and finally as I lie on my back, held up by the mass of water below me and stare up at the sky, I ask, "This is never going to end, is it? Not unless we become undesirable. Or a corpse."

It's intended to be a joke but neither of us laugh. "No, Katniss," Finnick says. He smiles sadly at me. "It's never going to end."

I let my feet sink, so I'm standing once more. And I look away from him. "Then I need to get better at it." The words make my mouth feel dry, as if they're sand on my tongue. "I need to get better at acting like... like..."

"Like you enjoy it?" Finnick finishes softly.

Everything about me feel stiff and my eyes are burning. I tell myself it's because I have chlorine in my eyes. Too much chlorine. "Yes," I say again. The confession makes me feel sick. "I can - I can act like I want to be there but... I can't act like I enjoy _it._"

Finnick sighs. "It's more complicated than that though, isn't it Katniss?"

How? When? Why do I not know anything about the _one_ thing that is keeping my family alive?! The burning grows harsher. "How?!" I ask, turning to him in vain. "How the hell can it get more complicated?!"

"They know you don't want to be there. They _bought_ you." The water ripples around us. "You have to act like you're being obedient and you have to go along with everything they say but, as it goes on, you have to pretend that you're... starting to like it. To like them."

How did I not think of this before?! If I go in there, all smiles and lust, I will not pull anything off. They bought me. They know I don't want to be there, so I must act like they change my mind; like we connect; like there is something about them that is irresistible and pulls me in. "God, you're right," I say, feeling even sicklier than before. "I didn't think..."

Finnick takes my face delicately between his hands and forces me to face him. "No," he says. "You weren't to know. I didn't know, either, when I started out. You're too busy worrying about your family to worry about your technique."

Licking my lips, I slowly lift my hands to Finnick's and take them from my face, entwining my fingers with his instead. A hot brush of his breath curls over my neck and the small droplets of water that remain there. "I can do that," I say, nodding. Wet hair flops into my face.

Finnick smiles and pushes it away. "Of course you can," he says. "You're Katniss Everdeen."

"I meant because I'm a girl," I say. "It's easy for girls to act... to act..." I clear my throat. "Aroused."

Even though his eyes glimmer in humour, Finnick says nothing of my awkwardness when it comes to anything even remotely sexual. You'd think that would change now I'm Capitol's plaything. It hasn't. I can have sex with them easily but talk about it? Not so much.

"You're a man, though," I say, trying not to look down at his very naked and very obviously masculine body. "So how do you find the willpower to... I mean... Ah..."

Finnick chuckles, shaking his head. "Sorry, what?" he asks teasingly. "How do I what?"

The blush that colours me is almost as fierce as my need to run away but not quite. "You _know_ what, Finnick!" I say, growing frustrated. Still he says nothing. "How do you get a - get a..." I indicate to what's below the water without looking.

Laughing, Finnick says, "Oh, you mean an _erection._"

More scarlet heat floods my face but I stand tall and say, "Yes. That."

The space between us suddenly seems very slim. Finnick leans further forward, gliding through the water, and the feel of him near me like this - so intimately - makes my skin tingle. I do not think of Gale and how I am swimming, naked, with another man. I do not think of Gale as Finnick's hands press to the wall of the swimming pool either side of me. I don't even think of Gale as Finnick leans in close and whispers in a breathy tone, "It's all just a matter of practice."

I fidget, not liking whatever dark thing is which is stirring in my gut. "Practice...?"

His hands glide onto my waist. I do not push them off. "Practice. As in experience." His smile is slow and teasing and I feel like I have melted and reattached to the wall behind me. I suddenly feel vulnerable like a trapped lamb. My throat is dry. "And when you're family's in danger... It just happens. You just do it. But experience is, mostly, the key."

"Experience with other clients?" My voice is quiet and hoarse, and I hate it. I hate it as much as I hate the life slipping around inside of me, electrifying my every sense.

Finnick shakes his head. "No," he says. His eyes stay deeply connected with mine. "Never clients. Always other people. You, for example..." Finnick's hands ghost up my sides and I shiver, wanting to move closer to him but wanting, also, to stay away as if I'm playing with fire. "You, I just can't get out of my head."

My breathing turns hollow. Even more hollow as his large hands cup just beneath my breasts and his thumbs stoke upwards, gliding over my nipples. "I... Why?" Now my voice is almost unrecognisable; it is foggy and crackled all at the same time, and the urge to move closer to Finnick only increases tenfold. "I have Gale..."

His eyes have never left mine. Perhaps that is what draws me closer to him, makes me want to connect with him in a way we have only once done before... "I'm sure you think about me when you're with Gale. I'm sure you think about us." Finnick's eyes are endless - gentle like the pool - but there is a heat in their depths which I can feel igniting me. "I'm also sure you haven't been with Gale like you've been with me._ Physically_."

I don't deny it. I don't think I could. "I..." Everything in me screams at me; eggs me on to rake my nails down his chest and pull his lips onto mine, feeling him like I desperately want to - _need_ to. "I..."

The heat is Finnick's eyes bursts into a fire. "You want me," he says. His hands snake around my waist and he tugs me into his body, so we are pressed up against each other by every inch. His eyes flicker to my lips which part open. Desire overtakes me. "I can see it, Katniss. Don't deny it. _You want me_."

Denial is not a word I currently know. I know nothing. Nothing but the way Finnick's arm tightens around me whilst his other slips into my hair and pulls my head back, eliciting a gasp from my wet lips. I know nothing but the way Finnick leans in close, brushing his lips over the hollow of my neck. I know nothing but the kiss he plants just below my ear, and the dark ebb of lust that shoots through me as he whispers, hoarsely, "And dammit, Kat, do I want you..."

His nose trails the line of my jaw. His eyes lock onto mine and his other hand trails up my back then weaves into my hair, and his lips graze mine. The desire that wakes my body scares me slightly but it also feeds me. And then guilt thrashes through me, and I know I should not be doing this. For who? For what?

For Gale?

The guilt intensifies. I know he is the reason for it. Even with Finnick's heat-infused body pressed against mine, and his lips hovering over my own, Gale will not vanish. "Finnick," I whisper. I sound frail and lust-ridden and filled with a painful need as I say, "Please don't do this. Please don't-"

"Shut up," he murmurs. His eyes close.

Mine do, too.

"Shut up and let me kiss you, Katniss." His lips graze mine. The stab of need that strikes me eradicates Gale from my thoughts. There is only Finnick. "Let me kiss you just this once."

It is not just once. It is one thousand times; Finnick, with a little force, pushes on the back of my head as he leans forward and our lips join. It starts soft, like the ripples of water that encircle us as we move, but gets harder and harder until I am pressed up against the wall, tangling my fingers in his hair and pushing myself further into his arms, needing the flush of warmth his touch brings me and the sweetness of his taste. We move as one and move hastily at that; he bites down softly on my bottom lip and I gasp, then our tongues are tangled and the fight becomes ferocious and I can feel the darkness inside of me shredding and pulling apart.

_This._ This is what I need. Finnick is what I need.

Finnick's lips suddenly pull from mine and leave kisses and bites down my jaw and my neck, before he is submerged in the water and his mouth closes around one of my nipples. A moan slicks up my spine and spills from my mouth and my nails dig into Finnick's broad shoulders. My head falls back and I can feel something in me, something breathing and living - a part of me I never knew existed - and before I know what I'm doing I have pulled him up from underwater. His impact with the surface splashes me but all I know are his lips which feverishly press against mine, needing the taste and feel of him now more than ever.

His hands cup my breasts, teasing me into a state of lust which would be paralysing were it not for the electricity thrumming in my veins. I jump up slightly and wrap my legs around him, feeling all of me press against all of him. We moan into each other's mouths and my hand wanders down his chest, keeping my other firmly hooked around his neck as he pushes me fiercely against the wall, and I dig my nails in and score down his chest to his abdominals, which I press my spread palm against almost greedily. Then my hand travels lower and lower and before I know what I'm doing I've grabbed him, and I tease him as much as he did me. Finnick growls into my mouth, nicking my lip with his teeth, and buries his head in my neck which he kisses and bites as my hand works his erection._  
_

I feel nothing when I'm like this. I feel nothing but the firmness of Finnick and my raging lust; the synchronised movement of the water around us and the coldness of the pool tiles against my back. He is all I taste - all I know; sugar and sea-salt and the bitterness of chlorine as our mouth reconnect and water makes them move slickly together.

Our lips join together once more in a frenzy of passion, and as they do I adjust myself on Finnick's body and he presses into me, slowly. My eyes squeeze and my lips fall apart, and a moan from deep within my core slithers out of me. My abdomen tenses as I arch my back, and press my hands into Finnick's shoulders. His lips ghost to my jaw as he groans hoarsely, and he traces the bone with his tongue, leaving little nips and sucks and bites as he does, then follows the path of my neck to my collarbone. He thrusts again and then again and I join in his rhythm as if instructed, pulling away as he does then pushing together as he does. Our moans blend together and eventually, we are so encased in desire we do not know how to do anything else but connect - connect together by our bodies.

I moan, and moan loudly, and feel Finnick's name jump from my lips with each collision of our bodies. My nails bore into his shoulders and comb down his back as he sinks into me and my insides knot tighter and tighter and I know I am near. Our body heats swallows one another; our pants and groans and endless noises leak into one another; we become one, rocking the water around us so it slashes up our thighs and our hips and our waists, and I can feel myself becoming dizzier and dizzier and losing a battle I know I will never win.

Suddenly, abdomen tenses harshly and the heat-soaked pleasure which has been building inside of me bursts, and bursts so intensely that I have to bury my head in Finnick's shoulder to muffle my screaming moans. He comes not shortly after with a manly groan and thrusts through both our orgasms, making them seem unbearably, beautifully long.

Our pants and moans become less. My body feels alight, like a simple touch could shatter in it, and I've collapsed into Finnick's chest.

We stay there, still connected, breathing through the aftershock of our intense pleasure. "Well," he says, sounding strained. "That was..."

"Incredible," I finish breathlessly. The heat of my breath washes over his chest and, finally, I let myself down into the water but I don't move away. I'm suddenly blushing as I trace my scratch marks. "I've marked you," I say.

Finnick chuckles and shakes his head. "Oh, this is nothing. You should see your neck."

I find myself smiling softly. "Bruises?" I ask.

Finnick nods. "And a lot of them, too."

"I'll blame it on another client."

Finnick's grin is quick. "Which is a shame because the truth is so much more... desirable." He leans in close. I feel myself start to tingle again. "It's exactly the kind of experience I was talking about."

My mouth goes dry. "That was a different type of experience to others?" I ask, none too casually. It _was_ the best sex I have ever had. Not that that says a lot.

Finnick chuckles darkly. "Oh yes, girl on fire," he says. He smirks. "That was the kind of experience that keeps you up at night."

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******WOW, this is a pretty long chapter. I'm trying to decide if that's good or bad. It's p********robably good. :P**

******In addition to being long, this chapter has not been proof-checked. Well, my chapters rarely are. Sorry about that! **


	24. The Hungry Twenty-Three

**Hello again! I'm so pleased you all liked the last chapter. I spent a long, long while working on it. :)**

**This is just to say thanks for all the reviews. Oh, and to say sorry for a little delay in updating; I had writer's block when writing this chapter which is completely inconvenient, considering how... important this chapter is! I've rewritten it an incomprehensible amount of times. Thank you for being so understanding!**

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An hour later, I have to drag myself from Finnick's side. He is comfortable and comforting and smells of something sweet, heavy and distinctly masculine - a smell I have grown to associate with peace and understanding. Safety. My home away from home.

I try not to think how much it terrifies me that Finnick is one of the most important people in the world to me now.

The man in question nuzzles my shoulder, groaning. "Not yet," he mutters, tightening his hand around my waist. "Don't get up yet. Five more minutes, Kat, okay?"

A soft sigh escapes my lips. I let myself relax and curl back into Finnick. "Five minutes," I say sleepily. I'm already up ten minutes earlier than I had planned, anyway. Haymitch can man the station for a little while longer... "Five more."

I feel his teeth graze the nape of my neck as he smiles. "I didn't think that would work," he mumbles. His fingers play with mine, hovering over my stomach. "I guess earlier really wiped you out, huh?"

A blush colours my cheeks. After our... session not an hour or so ago, Finnick and I had swam for a while longer. He practically attacked me; he dunked me under the surface and held me there and splashed me as I fought back. It was a pretty even fight in the end but that, along with what we- what we did before hand and then the walk home... I don't know. I've been exhausted recently. It just wore me out.

"Shut up, Finnick," I mutter. "You're the one who begged to sit in bed."

Finnick laughs. "I didn't beg," he says. "I asked once and..." His lips linger on my skin and kiss one of his many marks. "...you agreed."

I suck my bottom lip so harshly into my mouth it hurts. On the one hand, lying here with Finnick with no worries in the world - at least, not for the next few minutes - makes me feel calm and tranquil, and his body is so firm and warm around me like the fading heat of dying embers that the idea of pulling away makes my heart ache. On the other hand, I have Gale to think about. He loves me. I am his - that was guaranteed the second I told him I loved him, even if it was a lie. Even if what I said was false, it doesn't mean I don't owe him loyalty. _Loyalty didn't stop me from having sex with Finnick though, did it?_

Finnick's lips trail up my neck delicately. I feel myself shiver involuntarily and guilt balloons in my chest. "What's wrong?" he asks huskily. His lips brush over the shell of my ear.

_Not helping._ "Nothing," I say, shifting on the bed to look at him. "Nothing, I'm fine."

He smiles crookedly. "You're a liar," he says. His eyes are still foggy with sleep and one side of his face is creased from the pillow.

"Well, then I'm not fine but it doesn't matter." The guilt inflates and presses harshly against my heart as his fingers trace up the side of my arm. "I just... should probably get back to the control room. Duty calls."

Pushing myself away from Finnick and his bed takes a lot more willpower than I care to admit to myself. It's like snapping off a part of me, a necessity, like oxygen. I can feel the absence of him in my heart although he lies not five or six feet from me. I only try to ignore the ache, though it is a feeble attempt, and tug my dress back on. Then I remember the zip.

"Finnick, could you-"

His hands are already there. His heat is already there. The hole in my chest starts slowly filling back up, bloating like a watered tea bag. I realise that is not only filling with his presence but also guilt.

The guilt is starting to annoy me.

"There," he says, gently pushing the rest of my hair away from my back. He zips up the final centimetre. "All done."

I smile shakily. "Thank you."

Finnick doesn't retract as I expect him to. Instead he stays standing there, one hand smoothing down the back of my dress to my waist, the other slowly curling around me and holding against my hip. "What's going through your mind, Katniss?" he asks softly. His words wrap around me in a silken breath. "One minute you're there, with me, the next you're... I don't know where. Distant."

It is hard to pull away. Breathing seems like a thought as opposed to a subconscious function. "I'm here," I tell him. I don't touch him. I can't.

_Gale. Gale. Gale._

"No you're not, Katniss." Finnick slowly takes my hand and weaves his fingers through mine. He lifts them to my face. "This. You're not using your hands."

I stare at our hands for a moment. How delicate my fingers look as they lock between his. How his skin looks like a rich golden brown compared to my soft olive colour. How the strength that Finnick possesses doesn't make itself known as he holds my hand. "That's because I need them for more important things," I say.

Finnick slowly turns me against his body and smiles, then says, "And what would be more important?"

"Pulling on clothes." His smile widens but the knot in my stomach out tenses. "Pushing open doors. Controlling the District 12 station to look after my tributes... Waving to my boyfriend as I arrive back in District 12."

His smile fades. "This is about Gale," he says. "Your distance... It's because of him."

"We had _sex, _Finnick!" A blush ignites my cheeks but I ignore it. So does Finnick. "Of course I'm thinking about Gale! Do you know how bad I feel?!"

Finnick frowns at me. He doesn't let go of my hand so I shake his away, exhaling harshly. "I didn't _force _you into having sex with me!" he says.

"It was damn-well near it!" Pain stabs through Finnick's expression and I feel my heart crack. "No," I say desperately. "No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that."

He steps away from me, running his hands through his hair. He stares at his wall as he takes deep, calming breaths before looking at me through eyes that are fractured like parched dirt. "I didn't rape you," Finnick says, shaking his head. "I'm not a rapist. I'm not like _them_, Katniss."

Them. The clients. That is rape. Rape of a different sort. _They _are rapists.

"No, you're not." I take a step towards him and raise a hand to touch his arm. He pulls away from my touch like it scalds him.

My hand drops to my side.

"I'm sorry," I say. Why are my eyes burning? "I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_. I didn't mean it!"

"Katniss-"

"I liked it, okay?" I cry. "I liked having sex with you. I hate that I like it. I hate that everyday when I wake up I think of you and how much I want to see you and that I don't think of _Gale_, who loves me!"

"_Katniss-_"

"I hate that I feel like I can't breathe when you're not around and that you're the only one who can understand me! I hate that you're all that's on my mind and that with you, sex is not just a way to save my family but something I enjoy, and that confuses me and I just... I hate it! I hate _it!_ I hate all of this, for God's sake! Why did this happen to me? Why do I need you so much? Why does everything in me _ache_ when I think about leaving you? I'm sick of this! I am so bloody sick of all of this _stuff _in my head and I just - I want it all to go away and-"

Finnick's large hand closes over my mouth and I stare up at him, breathless from speech. A smile tweaks at his lips. "You talk too much when you're nervous," he says. "Do you know that?"

Slowly, my fingers curl around his wrist and free my mouth. Finnick doesn't pull away; instead, he takes my hand again. "No," I mumble. "I didn't know that."

"Perhaps it's because you've never been nervous like this before." His free hand gently traces patterns up my arm and I shiver, feeling the tickling trail he left tingle on my skin. "This time, you're a different type of nervous."

I lick my lips. My hands feel sweaty and I resist the urge to wipe them down on my clothes. "What type of nervous am I?" I ask him softly.

Finnick's smile breaks out into something filled with light and life, and his fingers skim across my shoulder and collarbone before settling, gently, in the middle of my chest. His palm lies flat. "_That_ kind of nervous," he breathes, stepping closer to me.

My heart hammers in my chest, sending liquid gold rushing through my veins. "You can feel it?" I croak. Each beat throbs through me and ripples over my skin.

With a nod, Finnick releases my hand and cups my cheeks, forcing my eyes to meet his dead on. It's like every part of him bores through me, burning like a slick blue flame in my depths. "Yes," he says.

Lightness pours into my skull. I feel like I could float away and, yet, something grounds me. Makes me heavy. Perhaps it is Finnick's stare. "I'm just nervous." The words are hard to force out when my mouth is so dry. "Guilty."

He takes a step forward. My heart beats faster. "No," he whispers. His fingers trail across my jaw and stroke my neck, before curling around and holding me there as he leans in and his warmth invades, smoothing out my imperfections. "Affection."

The sweep of his breath over my cheeks sends my into a state of muteness and as it trickles through my hair like sun through the trees, I anxiously lift a hand to his chest and spread my fingers, feeling his heartbeat, strong and scattered, chatter in his chest.

"Feel that?" Finnick asks me, smiling tenderly.

I nod, not daring to breathe.

"It's affection."

Affection. Like what? Like care? Like friends? Like... love?

_'Finnick is not in love with me!"_ I hear my past-self protest.

_"He is,"_ past-tense Logan replies, "_And you're in love with him, too._"

My eyes stare unwaveringly up into Finnicks. My gut clenches and my blood thrums through me so hectically that I go dizzy - but Finnick is there and he is holding me carefully, with his hand held up against my chest and his lips hovering centimetres from mine. Mint and the sea and the smell of something deep and fresh seeps into my body.

"Affection?" I eventually choke out. "What... affection?"

Finnick's lips smooth out and he leans in so close that they brush over mine as he speaks, and my restraint almost snaps. "Affection," Finnick says huskily, closing his eyes. "For you."

A shock wave rumbles through every inch, every pore, every _atom_ of my body. I feel vibrations of emotion sweep over me and for a second, my heart stops beating and his lips have joined with mine and he's kissing me, and a can feel a wetness stinging at my closed eyes and a rush of weightlessness inflating my chest. I wonder if, in this moment, I know peace and happiness as my lips tentatively kiss him back and my hands press against his chest and I know that we're not going to have sex and that he's not just shutting me up by kissing me but that he loves me and that maybe I could love him, and that this is how we tell each other it.

Then I crash-land and my heart starts up, and I can feel a much worse emotion crawling up my intestines like a poisonous pathogen, sickening my every essence.

I push Finnick away from me, breathing harshly into the still air as dichotomous emotions battle fiercely in my chest.

"Katniss?" Finnick brushes some hair behind my ear, smiling gently. His eyes look foggy. "Are you okay?"

"I-" My heart is still thumping in my chest and I stumble away from Finnick, gripping at my head. "Yes, I'm fine..."

Finnick grabs my arm, frowning. I shake him off. "What is it?"

"_This_!" I indicate to Finnick, then at the space between us. "You! Us! This _can't_ happen."

His eyebrows raise but his eyes go dull. "What can't happen?" he asks.

"You _know_ what!" The emotion rages on within me. "_We_ can't happen! Snow is watching us, for God's sake! You can't love me! Not now, not ever! If you do, Snow will kill one of loved ones!"

"Katniss-"

"And Gale! _I have Gale!_ I am happy, Finnick!" My feet turn me away from him furiously and I start to pace, breathing heavily. "I mean - damn, I love him! What am I doing?"

"You don't love him." Finnick's eyes harden. "You told me that you didn't think you meant it, that night on the roof."

I stop walking and feel my heart start to soften. "Well..."

"And you _do_ love me, Katniss." Finnick steps in front of me and takes my face in his hands, his strong shoulders hunching as he leans into me. "You know it. Even Logan saw it."

If I didn't love him, would I be feeling like this? Would my palms start to sweat when he came close? Would My heart start pumping harder? Would my stomach erupt in a horrid butterfly sensation? - except, the butteries feel more like eagles and they infect my whole body, not just my stomach.

My thoughts stop suddenly and I frown up at him. "Logan?" I ask, stepping away. "Logan?"

Finnick closes his eyes and sighs, then looks to me and says, "Look, Katniss, I-"

"You told me you didn't hear anything." My chest is going insane. "You acted confused!"

"I had to, Katniss! What else was I going to do?"

"_Tell_ me?! I would have told you what I was saying to Logan if you had!"

Finnick's hands fly into the air and he exhales harshly. "Okay, fine. What had you told Logan?"

"That I didn't love you." My jaw tightens and I keep my voice rough, even as I watch Finnick's eyes crumble and my insides squirm in guilt. "That the very idea was stupid."

Finnick shakes his head and takes a step towards me, looking lost. I take a step back. "No," he says, staring hard at me. I feel the heat of his eyes scorch me, intensifying my guilt. "No! No. No, Katniss. You love me. You don't just have sex with everyone you meet!"

"Yes I do, Finnick!" I exclaim angrily. "I'm a whore! _Capitol's whore! _That's what whores _do!_"

"Tell me earlier meant nothing." He walks towards me and desperately grips my face, searching my expression. His eyes are suspiciously shiny and it makes hurts me - physically hurts me, as if I've been stabbed straight through the gut. "Tell me you don't love me - because I don't think you can, Kat. After all you said earlier - after all you just _admitted _to me about how I make you feel - you can't deny that."

"No, I can't..." I stand tall, keep my eyes cold and uncaring, and try to hollow out my heart. "...but I don't love you, Finnick. You make the pain go away. That's all."

Finnick's eyes frantically search my face for a chink in the armour but I am strong; I do not let loose the conflict roaring in my heart or the frantic _need_ to push our bodies together and show him just how much he means to me. So he crumbles. I watch it, his heartbreak or whatever it may be, shatter his expression. Everything about him seems to deflate.

I realise it was hope that was holding him up.

Finnick steps back from me and doesn't meet my eyes, rubbing at his forehead. "Then I guess you better go." His eyes catch mine. "You've got doors to push open. Tributes to look after. Boyfriends to wave at."

The insult pounds straight through me and radiates through my shaky bones. "Right," I say in a level voice. "I have."

The silence that pulls over the room is taut and hard and thick, rough to touch. I feel it screech against my skin as I walk to the door and my footsteps trample all over its ugly form. Then, the door slams closed behind me and I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The toxic knife that has been wedged in my stomach falls out and, with it, I crumple to the floor and silent tears pool out of my eyes.

Everything spins around me, blurred by my sadness. My knees are brittle and shudder as I push myself up from the floor, sniffling and wiping harshly at my tears with the palm of my hands.

"You deserve this, Katniss," I tell myself quietly, swelling in my grief. "He's too good to love you anyway."

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**_I'm falling for your eyes_**

**_but they don't know me yet..._**

**That's it from me. Just thought it was an appropriate lyric. Thank you for reading and for your wonderful reviews! It's insane how many reads this story gets; this is my first story on this site and the response has been overwhelming. I mean, I'm a rookie and I've been getting - what? - 600 to 700 views _on average_ for every chapter?! Wow. Thank you so much!**


	25. The Hungry Twenty-Four

**HOLY MEATBALLS. (I'm trying to stop swearing, in case you're wondering). ****I HAVE REACHED 100 _FAVOURITES_! _That_ is an _accomplishment_! I don't even know what to say! Wow! Thank you so much! Just... holy crap. _Thank you. _Favourites! That means 100 people find my story awesome enough to be classed among their _favourites. _That word is starting to sound weird. _Favourites.__  
_**

**ALSO, do you _know_ how many reviews I got last chapter?! Around thirty_,_ man! _Thirty_! That is just insane. Well, I guess I did break your hearts a little, huh? Thank you so much for your continued support! It means the world to me.**

**Anyway, this A/N has been a bunch of love. Love for you. So, for the things mentioned and many others things you guys say to me, I've been busting my ass writing this chapter. Seriously. Writing with a pen doesn't seem possible to me anymore.**

**Thank you (_so much_) again! Enjoy the chapter.**

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The Shark room is bustling. It makes my insides feel shaky and I hurriedly pass through all the people, trying to calm myself after earlier. Finnick is the least of my concerns right now; I only need to worry about Fiona and Logan. They are my priorities. I need to take over from Haymitch, breathe deeply and _focus_. If I don't, it wont be my head on the line - it will be much worse. Worse in ways I don't want to imagine.

"Hi Haymitch," I mutter once my feet have dragged me over to station 12.

Haymitch glances up at me. He has dark shadows under his eyes and rough stubble following his jawline. "Jesus, sweetheart!" he says, looking me up and down. "Who ran _you_ over?"

I pat down my ragged hair. I _had_ changed and groomed myself after returning from Finnick's room but I guess your insides really do reflect on your outside. So, I simply shrug. "How are they doing?" I digress.

Haymitch frowns at me, his eyes skimming across my silken shirt and trousers. I'd rather be in my father's hunting jacket, curled up with a hot chocolate and watching the breeze brush against the leaves in the woods - but I am a long way from the woods. I only have the wall in my bedroom.

And that wall is just a tease. It makes me homesick.

In the Capitol, when I first came for the Hunger Games, I didn't think I was coming back. I thought I was going to die. The wall was then, of course, torture. It taunted me and plagued me with thoughts of Primrose and Gale and my mother, all of whom I loved all the more when I arrived back to them. I loved the woods more, too. Actually, perhaps that isn't true. I don't think I loved Gale more when I returned from the Hunger Games - in fact, the Games drove a wedge between us.

A wedge apparently only I could feel, considering Gale decided it was the perfect time to kiss me.

"All right," Haymitch grunts, pushing himself out of the chair. He indicates me over to the map and says, "The Careers are getting closer. Dangerously so, Katniss. I think they'll find the twins."

My determination splits for only a second before it hardens like never before and I say, "Then we have to warn them."

Haymitch nods. "We do. Finnick told me about your plan."

_Finnick_. Something sharp punctures my lung. "Plan?" I ask tightly.

"Using gifts to portray danger," he elaborates, "like Finnick did with the Sharkies."

My other lung bursts. My breathing becomes forced and shallower but otherwise unnoticeable. "Right," I reply. Where's a shower when you need one? "Of course. Gifts..."

"Yes, _sweetheart._ Gifts." He snorts and looks at me again; I realise that, considering how many looks Haymitch has given me since I walked in, I'm probably out of it. Half-insane. "There's nothing good to send though. Nothing obvious."

Oh, God. This day just keeps getting worse... "You don't think we can warn them?" I ask. I can't accept the possibility because my stomach is already folding and my lungs heave with the taste of bitter dread. I feel like my skeleton can barely support my weight; that I am being endlessly pulled down by myself and my grief, and I know that I am probably the only one to blame.

Then again, _I'm_ not trying to kill the twins. On the contrary, I am doing everything in my power to save them; to keep them with me.

_I did everything in my power to push Finnick from me, though, didn't I?_

Haymitch looks back to the map, scanning over the Career's position. "That's exactly what I'm saying," he says. Even though his voice is solid and almost indifferent, when I look at him I can see the strain in his eyes and the bleakness of his skin. He keeps licking his lips therapeutically. I know it is because he wants to drink until he cannot remember he is even alive.

"What about a knife?!" I ask, suddenly. I can hear the desperation starting to taint my voice but it envelops me, indestructible. "A knife would let them know they have to fight! That they're in danger!"

"No, not going to work." Haymitch pulls his gaze from the table to look back up at me. His eyes have darkened now the luminescence of the map isn't beaming up at him, and it reminds me strangely of my guts; how they have warped and rotted, turning sluggish and grey from inevitability and disappointment. And fear. "Sending a knife is a waste of their money because they're already armed. We only have so much money given to us, Katniss. We don't want it to run out."

I know he is right. I know he is right but still, I want to fight. I can feel myself becoming drawn to the edge, standing there with my toes dangling over and feeling the rush of the air whoosh up and blew through my hair, ready to thump into my back and make me fall. I will not fall. I will fight. "No," I say steely, shaking my head slowly. "No, Haymitch. _No._ There has to be something we can do-"

"There is _nothing_, sweet-"

"_No!" _My hands are gripping at my hair as I turn desperately towards our station, then fling them down to start searching the records for something. "No, no, _no!_" Eyes burn into me like pitiful flames but I shake them off, ignore them, and feel my voice start to crack hysterically in my throat, rising with my tears. "For God's sake, _no!_ If we don't find a way to tell them, they will _die,_ Haymitch!"

Haymitch grabs my arm. "Katniss, for Christ's sake-!"

"_I will not let them die!_" I promised them! I promise I would keep them alive! I promised I would at least let one of them out and let them keep their lives and return them to their family, knowing that one needs to live for the other to be content with their death! If they both die, I fail both of them. If only one dies, I have failed one of them.

Neither can live without their twin but they both want each other to survive. So _what the hell do I freaking do?!_

"Sweetheart, _calm down_! People thrive off your weakness."

His nails dig into my arm and I push him away, furious with myself for having a miniature breakdown in front of all these people - these mentors - who stare at me in pity and victory, knowing that the deaths of my tributes will scar me but will benefit their tributes' survival. It makes my stomach turn. "No, they wont," I say harshly, letting my cold eyes bore into each and every tribute. Some less so than others. "They wont because Logan and Fiona are not going to die."

Haymitch snorts. "Sweetheart, as much as I'd like to believe that, the career's are half a day's walk from them. Maybe less. They wont make it."

"They _will!_" I can feel the tears scraping at the back of my retinas again, eroding them like poison, and swallow them down little brittle whisky. "They will because I made a promise. I promised that one of them will win." _And_ _I don't break my promises._

From beside me, I watch someone shake their head almost imperceptibly. I see a flash of golden-bronze hair and my heart squeezes, making my breath shudder and choke for a split second before I am looking at them, staring, and the rest of the room returns to their tributes. I hope Haymitch is doing the same for Logan and Fiona because, my God, I can't look away. I don't know why. I think of out in the hallway when I collapsed against _his_ door, and the way my feet drag as I walk and the way his eyes cracked and my heart split, and how I haven't felt whole since I rejected him. Finnick.

Speaking does not even seem eligible.

Finnick's sea-green eyes stare back at me. His expression shows nothing but indifference but I can see, see in those eyes I have come to know so well over the past year, that he is hurting; they are darker, foggier, shrouded by an armour even I can't penetrate. An armour that is noticeable but unbreakable; but we all know why armour is used - to protect something, to conceal something, to keep something in and keep other things out - and so I know that he is hurting.

After all, I watched the armour build after shattering the treasure inside.

"Katniss," he says, stiffly. I wonder how he can find it in him to speak, whilst I stand here feeling like I have been torn to pieces. "How are you?"

Guilty. Dead inside. Panicking. Flustered. Overwhelmed. Hopeless. "Fine," I say, not even venturing a smile because the very idea is painful. "And you?"

"Well, thank you." Well does not mean good. "Gabriel is safe, in case you're wondering."

If that is intended to hurt, it does. It plunges so hard and so fast into my stomach that I visibly recoil, hands shifting to the place of impact as if I have actually been damaged physically. And I stare at Finnick as I step back, feeling like I am looking at a stranger though I am not; I am simply looking at the repercussions of destruction. AKA, Finnick in his worst. And I feel like this is the first time I have ever, properly, seen him destroyed.

Haymitch chooses that moment, where I can feel the sorrow ripping me raw inside, to intervene. "Lovers' spat?" he asks, chuckling. "What happened now?"

Something stale grasps relentlessly on to the back of my throat. "We are _not_ lovers," I say, not able to meet those sea-green eyes as I speak. "We wont ever be that."

Haymitch scoffs. "Rejected, huh?"

We do not reply.

"Whatever, sweetheart. I'm going to swim with the sharks." He walks past me without trouble and I realise he has not drank anything. He needs to drink something before he goes insane. "Make sure they don't die."

Again, it is another knife to my emotions. "Sure," I say. "They can handle themselves."

Yet I know that Haymitch does not believe me because he does not reply.

When he leaves and I sit down at my station - horrendously conscious that Finnick is still sitting next to me at 11's station, which sparks some sort of hope in my chest because it means he can still stand to be around me or perhaps even _wants_ to be - I feel my heart start to pump a little faster. I know that, today, Logan and Fiona will encounter the Careers. It is inevitable, like most things. Like my fight with Finnick.

_That was not inevitable. That was my fault, me, being awful._

Yes, inevitable. And inevitability is what makes my heart ache worse than anything else. After all, almost everything bad that happens in life is inevitable like death, which has wounded me so badly inside I doubt whether the scars will ever fade; or the consequences when you do something wrong.

Hours pass with Fiona and Logan. They remark about having to get water soon but can't seem to drag from each other's sides; they eat food I send them and talk about memories and their lives before the games; they joke and laugh; they sleep and hug. With every minute I wonder if they are closer to their death because, certainly, the Careers are too close for comfort now.

Then, suddenly, I find myself shattering the silence I have built with Finnick at my side. "I - I have to tell you something," I say, whilst everyone, bar myself and Finnick, seems busy - because I have just remembered Mr. Rhineheart and his words; words that promised time is all it takes. And hours have passed since he said that.

Perhaps he has already ordered Finnick and I.

"All right." Finnick meets my eyes briefly, just a hovering over them. "Tell me."

How to start such a heavy sentence? How to tell something of this magnitude, especially to someone who you think despises you; who makes your heart ache; who you long for inside with a sense of sadness? All the while knowing the distance and the nastiness between you is your fault. "Mr. Rhineheart..." My hands wring in my lap. "Yesterday, in the Shark room, I heard him speaking with someone and he meant for me to hear the conversation..."

Apparently Finnick must understand how I know this because he does not question it. He only nods.

"He was talking about me..." My voice is suddenly much quieter and wavers slightly, and I can feel my fingers bunching together and my throat starting to close. "...and you."

This seems to have captured his attention because he raises an eyebrow. Even that slight indication of normal behaviour makes my heart leap. "What about us?"

"About us... about us getting..."

"Getting what?" Is that a flicker of amusement I can see in those eyes? A chink in his armour?

The knowledge that Finnick still breathes inside of him and does not, perhaps, despise me, makes the words come to me even though I flush red. "About us getting intimate." I wonder if that is enough. "About us having sex."

"He can't know, Katniss." Finnick shakes his head and readjusts his position in his seat, starting to face his station again. "We had sex not hours ago, and you heard this a whole day ago-"

"No, Finnick." My heart starts thumping in my chest and my heads are clammy. "You don't understand! He was talking about _filming _us!"

A stand-still. I have rarely see Finnick Odair look taken aback but for a moment, just for a moment, the very blood in his veins seem to freeze and his eyes cut through me as he stays eerily still, as if petrified, before he blinks and a hand runs through his hair. "Filming it?" he asks hesitantly. "You mean pornography."

I nod. The horridness of the very idea plagues me still, and the awful feelings from before return to me in a flush of fear and shock. "Yes."

"How?" It is obviously a rhetorical question because of he answers it himself. "He'll order us. Force us into it."

Again, I nod. The desolate hopelessness from before, when I heard Rhineheart speak of his plans, grasps me again. "He made sure to let me know that we can't get out of it."

"We have to tell Snow," Finnick says anyway. "I can't imagine this is something he'd want."

Yet that could easily bounce back at us. "He could punish us for eavesdropping or not complying."

Finnick snorts. "What that man - Rhineheart - wants isn't what Snow signed us on for, Katniss. It's a whole other world." I try not to notice how detached he is being; how he speaks professionally and does not tease me or comfort me or crack a joke. This is a Finnick I never knew could exist. "Snow wont want his authority challenged. We'll tell him."

"When?"

"Tonight. We can't waste time."

Although I know time is something we have very little of, nervousness kicks me in the gut and I want to protest. I don't get to protest, though...

Because Fiona's scream suddenly pierces through me.

Faster than I could have thought, my neck snaps to the scream and I am beating myself up on the inside, beating myself to nothing, because I was not watching and I was not there and I was being selfish whilst she, on her way to get water, was flanked by the Career pack.

And I was not there. I was not watching. I was not helping.

"Ah, and here's the little bitch that put a knife to my throat!" Tate says. His voice is dark and low and dangerous as he face presses close to hers and his breathe rustles her loose strands of hair. "Is it a nice feeling, 12, having a knife shoved to your throat?"

Fiona whimpers as the boy presses the blade harder against her soft skin, and her hands are clutching so desperately at his arm and her face is flushing red and I can feel my heart beating in my chest in the rage of emotion splitting me in two but I cannot, for the life of me, feel it.

Sword slinks away from Blade's arm to lean in close to Fiona's face, pressing her nose to hers and grinning. "She's bloody terrified!" Sword laughs and looks to Blade. "Oi, Blade, this one's not even worth the effort!"

Blade smirks. I hear him speak for his first time, and his voice is harsher than I had deemed. It is cold as steel and harsh as gravel - but it is smooth, too, like his words are well-rehearsed. "She is if her death is slow," he says, and Tate's knife seems to pull away from her neck a little as if instructed. "I don't care. Kill her. So long as she's dead, I don't care."

The hope inside of me begs Fiona not to give into her fear and let her bravery kick her into an adrenaline rush like when Logan's life was endangered, before, and I wish she was strong enough to retalliate in some way and escape the knife which holds her hostage or, even, accept her death with ferocity and dignity - but none of that happens. "Please," Fiona begs softly, and I feel something die in me when the tears glisten in her eyes. "Please don't taunt me."

The 'something' in me that had died suddenly bursts to life; Fiona is not begging for her life, which is something. She's begging for some sort of humanity surrounding her death.

Pride swells in me but it is usurped by terror and hate; sorrow which seems to suffocate me is spawned by the fear I know Fiona is feeling. And I cannot help. Suddenly, it is anger that is dominant, raging through my veins like a bull. "Why am I even here?!" I shout, slamming my hands down on the desk. "For God's sake, I can't do _anything_ but sit here and watch my tribute _die!_"

Finnick does not say anything. I'm not sure I expected him to.

On the screen, Sword laughs brokenly and walks back over to where Blade and the other Career stand. "Asking for mercy? God, she's even more chicken than I thought."

She's not, though. Not to me. Asking not to be taunted is much braver than asking not to be killed.

"Do you think we should drain her of her blood?" Sword's eyes linger on Fiona like a disease. "Or should we just let 7 slit her-"

"Fiona!"

Everyone's heads snap up. Five pairs of eyes pierce through Logan as he stands there, dishevelled and blank-faced, his knife clutched in one hand by his side.

Tate's smirk is slow and sure and malicious. "Well, if it isn't Logan," he says, shoving Fiona to the floor so harshly she cries out. "We finally meet again."

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**I'm sorry this took me so long to update, guys. I had another relapse. What can you do, you know? ****Just keep swimming, I guess! :)**

**(This chapter was meant to be longer but this was all I could manage right now! It's a bit of a bad chapter. Sorry to leave you hanging... again.)**


	26. The Hungry Twenty-Five

**As this chapter is just a continuation from the last (it really should be _part_ of the last chapter but I couldn't- well, I explained why in the author's note!) this is only short. I'm really sorry about that. Trust me, I plan to make the next much longer! (Hopefully. *Ahem*)**

**Anyway, enjoy?! That's kind of screwed up to say considering... well, just read it. You'll see. ;)**

***NOT PROOF READ! (As usual!)***

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My heart is thumping entirely too quickly. It rattles my rib cage and upsets my stomach, reverberating through me like a cloud of unsettled dust. I can feel something closing over my throat.

On screen, Logan stands there, staring down Tate. His eyes flicker to Fiona and where she stands frozen in front of the forth Career with the curve of his axe pressed against her; the sharp point where the blade thrusts out draws a spot of blood from where it protrudes into her neck. It makes her look smaller, even more vulnerable, with such a large weapon held tightly against her throat. She has paled horrendously.

"Logan!" Her cracked lips part and a sob escapes her but her fingers, wrapped tightly around the handle of the axe, turn white from determination. "Run! Please!"

Logan's expression hardens and turns steely. "No," he says simply, and turns back towards Tate. "You're scum, you know that?"

Tate, with a laugh, shrugs. "Takes one to know one, I guess."

"Scum don't spare the life of a murderous idiot!" The words are brittle, harsh; forced out between Logan's teeth like a string of profanities. "_You're_ scum, Tate. Who has a vendetta against someone who _spared_ them?!"

Sword looks to Tate, scoffing. "You're alive because they didn't kill you?" The prospect must be hilarious to her because her eyes glisten in a sort of sadistic humour and her lips curl up, before she lets out a short bark of laughter and leans against Blade, absent-mindedly twirling the mace in her hands. "Wow, you're a priss, 7."

Tate's fists tighten along with his jaw. "_I'm not a priss_," he says darkly, glowering. "I'm not weak!"

"So that's what this is about..." Why is Logan egging him on? Why is he putting himself in danger? Does he not realise how much my insides are twisting out of nonsensical fear? Fear that he will lose an arm; have his guts torn apart; have his mind warped from such physical and mental torture that he'll be begging for death? "You're trying to prove you're not some weakling simply because we overpowered you, then didn't kill you? This is all some sick form of revenge?"

Fiona whimpers, her breaths suddenly raspy. Her face is flushing red. Still, her arms shake from the sheer force she is exerting in order to keep the axe from splitting open her throat.

"Don't piss me off, 12!" Tate growls.

Logan laughs, a sour sound that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. "Little too late for that, isn't it?" His fingers flex around the knife. "Take a look around, Tate because _you are weak. _This spiteful idea to come and kill us proves just that because you live on anger and other people's opinions of you. Do you not realise how _weak_ that is? They do." Logan nods to the rest of the Careers, looking like he's enjoying taunting Tate entirely too much. "If I don't kill you, they will. _Your team-mates. _They think you're weak, now, so why wont they kill you first? You'll probably be slaughtered straight after me."

_Straight after me._

My lungs ache miserably, about to burst, burning without the sweet inhale of oxygen. My mouth cracks open and I want to breathe but, _God_, fear and anger fuel me to the extent I can barely see straight. I want to rip out my hair and scream until my throat bleeds; I want to sob and punch and murder _someone,_ _anyone_, but who the hell can I when there is no-one to blame?! Restricted in my veins, my frustrations ebbs through me until my vision is dark and blurred and I am shaking, unable to think and see and hear anything but Logan and the scene before me and the way Tate, in a second, cracks.

And he lunges at my tribute.

Air whooshes like a tsunami tide inside my lungs, burying me under it so quickly I feel light-headed yet still solid, stony, shuddering and staring in a furiously transfixed state at the screen. I realise I am breathing because I am shouting, if barely, and hysteria rises within me because there is no way Logan is going to live. He has just said it. I have just said it to myself.

Oh God. Oh_, God. _What am I becoming? What the hell is this sick and twisted world doing to people like Logan?! _Ruining _them.

"Logan!" Fiona cries on the screen and struggles in the Career's grasp, desperate tears crawling down her cheeks as Logan is buried under Tate's burly body, and there is a groan and a shuffle and the boy is obviously at his mercy.

I flinch away from the screen, breathing too deeply, too quickly.

Logan's knee suddenly jabs upwards and hits Tate right where it hurts; the latter swears and Logan, seizing opportunity, shoves him to the side and plunges his knife in his direction. Tate's eyes widen and he rolls quickly, the knife catching him on the waist, before he kicks out and the knife is thrown from Logan's hands and he yanks his own out from his belt, breathing heavily as he lunges again. This time Logan is prepared however and tenses, jumping to the side with a wide-eyed look.

I realise the Careers are not getting involved. They don't care about Tate's spiteful vendetta. So long as one of them dies in the end so they can kill the winner, they're happy.

Perhaps they shouldn't be.

Tate's knife soars backwards, nicking Logan's cheek and nose, deep and painful. A short and shuddery gasp racks Logan for a moment and then he has dropped to the floor, narrowly avoiding another one of Tate's advances. Tate is slow but packs a punch; Logan is quick and agile; opportunity is what he needs.

Logan jumps to his feet and barrels into Tate's stomach, thrusting the boy off his feet and smashing him into a huge boulder; the impact cracks Tate's head and for a second, he is visibly disorientated so Logan crashes his fist down on the older boy's face; but Tate, immediately after impact, spins them around and uppercuts Logan, eliciting a sharp gasp from him.

My hands are white. I can feel my face paling but it feels so warm at the same time, flushed with emotion. I feel dizzy. Today is bad day. Today is a very, very, very bad day.

_Logan is going to die._

Laughing deeply but with an undeniable back-drop of pain, Tate slashes the knife up and cuts shallowly through Logan's chest as it passes it, before he angles for Logan's neck and presses forward-

Logan's arms shoot up and block the attack, shaking as he wraps his hands around Tate's sweaty fingers, shoving the knife in his direction. Both of them scrounge for power, perspiration slick on their faces and dirt rubbed into their skin; Logan's hold gets weaker and weaker and he shakes more and more and then, when his eyes flicker to Fiona as she whimpers, Tate grabs the power and the knife is suddenly only millimetres from Logan's neck, whose wits return to him and he is suddenly breathing harshly, rugged and rasping much like my own breathing.

I'm not about to die, though. That is the difference.

"See you in hell!" Tate snaps brokenly, glowering as he crushes his clammy fingers with the strength he pushes the knife to Logan's neck with. "I'm gonna enjoy watching your eyes roll back. I only wish you could see me bleed _her_ out!"

Logan's eyes glint as Tate's words slap him. _Her. Fiona. His twin. The one he swore to protect. _Then suddenly, I see all his rage bunch up in side of him and he is groaning, deep and vicious and not at all human, and he shoves Tate back fiercely, twisting the boy's fingers around the knife so hard that I hear a crack and I know Tate has broken something; he cries out in pain and suddenly Logan has all the power. The knife cuts into his palm as he grips it so tightly that his bones rattle, and then he throws himself down on Tate and slashes the boy's throat. Tate is barely able breathe before his blood is rushing out of the wound and his body is slack, and Logan is up from the floor and staring down at the body indifferently.

He is dead. That is what Logan is thinking, I know. He has just killed another person; why does it not feel real? Why does he feel so empty? I know that he will feel it, soon. If he comes out of the Games it will hit him like a tonne of bricks.

I'm abruptly shoved from my thought as Logan's eyes land on his sister.

Fiona is sobbing under her breath, barely functioning. My heart aches because I can see it in her eyes; feel it in my bones: she is exhausted. She violently shudders and cries and she is barely standing up, bleeding from the neck as she slumps against the Career in her exasperation, not able to find the will to live. When her eyes meet Logan's something sparks in them and she realises he is not dead; then, just as his name slips off her lips and she seems to grow back into what she really is, her grip slips and her shaking arms slump, and the axe has ripped so viciously through her neck that it is almost severed from her body.

There is a ringing in my ears. A silence so intense I can hear my hear hammering inside of me and ripping my chest apart, and suddenly there are screams inside of me and Fiona's corpse tumbles to the floor like a ragdoll and her head falls past her neck, barely attached. Horror so sick and thick slicks over my lungs to the extent I have to pant for breath, and stars pop in my eyes. I am sobbing. I realise it when fists slam down on the keyboard and my hair sticks to my face, and I am chanting over and over again like a howling dog, _"No, no no no no no..._"

My hands slip into my hair, gripping at it and tugging, tugging for all I am worth. I feel my body shudder and break and I can hear shouting raging in my headphones but I cannot look at the screen because I know I will have to watch Logan die, and watching Logan die will ruin me; ruin me and tear me apart, though Fiona's death has done something so malicious and nefarious to my dark and crumbling insides that I have to wonder if there is anything left to ruin.

Arms encase me suddenly, strong and sure and comforting. I sob into them carelessly, roiling my fragile frame.

Soft nothings are mumbled into my ear over and over again as I am rocked and rocked, hushed and hugged and held so tightly I could burst. I can smell the sea and feel only warmth stroking against my tear-stained cheeks, as Finnick's soft words tangle in my hair and leave me wailing so desperately into his chest that I am gripping at his shirt and hating myself, hating what I am and what death makes me become. I am _weak._ I am _nothing._ I am not worthy of Logan and certainly not of Fiona, and I cannot get them - _him_ - out alive. I never could. How could I possibly think I could? I was naive. A fool!

God, I am nothing.

I have just second-handedly killed Fiona, a girl so sweet she makes sugar taste bland, and in doing-so, I have murdered something in Logan that runs so deep he will never be who he was before.

Why did I watch that - Fiona's death? Why, of all ways to kill a person, did she have to be... to be...

Tremor after tremor ties my insides in bunches and suddenly, as no more tears come and I am simply shouting into Finnick's chest, hating and hating and hating, he has silenced and stilled and I am suddenly very aware the sound in my ears has stopped.

Slowly, I tilt my head up from Finnick's chest and look through painful and swollen eyes at the screen. Logan is alone. The Career that had killed Fiona is dead, on the floor, bruises beginning to blossom on his skin. His cheeks are flushed with blood, his eyes wide. Sword, on the other hand, has a knife wedged in her stomach. She will die, I know. I can see it.

In a moment of confusion, I stare unblinkingly at the screen. "W-What..." I can't ask it. I feel like my tongue has been robbed from me.

Good thing Finnick understands me better than anybody else.

"He killed them, Katniss," Finnick says. His voice sounds detached but shaken. "Logan went insane. The one that killed Fiona went to kill him, too but Logan... overpowered him."

_Beat him senseless. Strangulation. _That is what I hear Caesar commenting in the backwash of noise. _Beat him senseless. Strangulation._

Finnick continues, "He stabbed Sword with the Career's knife as she lunged at him and Blade just... ran."

"He ran?" My voice is too small and breathy for my liking. I clear my throat and try again. "Blade ran?"

Finnick nods slowly and smiles, though it is wavering and weak. "Yes, Katniss," he says. "He ran."

"Why?"

"You didn't see him." Finnick's sea-green eyes bore into mine and, for a second, I feel whole. Then he looks away and shakes his head and I am left feeling cold and empty and filled with hate. "Logan was... He was insane, Katniss. He cracked. Fiona's death destroyed him."

_It is also destroying me._ "You're telling me Blade was scared?" I ask. "Blade, the leader of the Careers, was scared?"

"You didn't see him," Finnick repeats. His gaze holds mine and that rush of comfort warms me again; lukewarm like an abandoned cup of coffee. "He was terrifying, Katniss. It was like he wasn't human."

Logan certainly looks human now. He is sobbing into his lap, fisting at his hair as he cradles his body brokenly, keeping as far away from Fiona's corpse as possible. The sight makes my heart stop; his cries come from so deep within him that his whole body moves with him, jerking violently. Suddenly, he stumbles to his knees and pukes, then he drags himself from sight and back into his cave, where sobs and sobs and sobs until his throat is swollen and his eyes are dry and all he can do is glare at the empty space where his sister used to sit.


	27. The Hungry Twenty-Six

**Okay, so I haven't updated in ages so technically I'm an awful human BUT I have good reason: I have had so much work to do ****(seriously, I have been DROWNING) **and that, my friends, is my priority. On top of that I've had some family issues and I'm feeling pretty shitty. Please forgive me whilst I kiss your feet and apologise for my tardiness. Hopefully you understand. :)

**Thank you all so much for reading and for your lovely reviews; you really make me smile and your support means the world. Enjoy the chapter! Sorry it's short; as I said above, I hope you understand. **

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**WARNING: Contains prostitution and mild bondage. Scenes will mature and worsen in time with this story when regarding Mr. Ingot. Once you reach the text breaker you're safe; before that is a whole scene with Mr. Ingot which some people may want to avoid. Just as a warning!**

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I stare at the door in front of me, a lump clogging my throat and sickness stirring in my gut. Everything in me tells me to run away - that this can only end in disaster - but if I do that, I will either get my second warning or I will be punished without consideration and we _all_ know what that means. It means Prim or Gale or my mother will die, and with Peeta and Rue dead and now Fiona, too, I wonder how much death I can handle. Not much more; not after all those people I killed in the Games and all those who have dropped dead in front of me and left a hole in my heart. It's strange, really, that it affects me so much. In the Seam, people died every day; people starved to death like I almost did and they still do, too. So why do people's deaths scar me now?

If I had to guess, I'd say it's because of me; because I have killed people and seen the life seeping from their eyes; because I have killed people and took away someone's friend or sibling or cousin, and I know the guilt that resides with that; because I have lost people I loved and cared for and, in doing so, have lost the sort of coldness inside of me that enabled me to block it out.

I don't know. It could be many things: it could be because I've killed, seen people kill, or because I've had my loved ones get killed. Either way, it affects me now. Especially when I watch someone like Logan, who I care for more than I thought I could, beat someone to death after losing his only reason for fighting.

Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I knock apprehensively on the door, repeating all that Finnick has taught me so far. I've got to be convincing; this _can't_ fail. Especially not now - not here. Not at Mr. Ingot's home, the man who is responsible for my first warning. He will not hesitate to complain and, I imagine, will probably go _looking _for a reason. So I mustn't give him one.

The door swings open just as I am trying to calm the heart beat in my throat. Mr. Ingot stares at me with dark, clouded eyes, his skin a very pale blue and his hair an electric navy colour. His eyebrows are tattooed on and they raise with his skin comically as his eyes scan over my body then he nods and pulls open the door further, letting me step inside.

I can feel his gaze hovering pervertedly on my skin, coating me in a wet heat.

"Katniss," he says. "Hello again."

My eyes flicker to him as I pat down the front of my dress - protocol for _appointments_ is that dresses are a must, much to my displeasure - and try out a smile. I know I have failed miserably. I can feel it. "Derren," I say back to him. "Is your wife out?"

Mr. Ingot simply smiles, his eyes glimmering in humour. "I don't think it would matter if she was in," he replies. He walks over to a mahogany desk, where he pours two glasses of red wine, still smiling. "Do _you_ think it would matter, Miss. Everdeen?"

"I doubt what I think matters." When he offers the glass, I take it with a small thanks, and continue, "In fact, I _know_ what I think doesn't matter. You made that clear last time."

A laugh. _He laughs._ It chills me to the bones, mostly with a sickened anger. "Ah, yes." His thick thumb traces the edge of his glass before he take a small sip, eyes stuck on mine even behind the rim of the glass. "Yes, I did say that, didn't I? Well, I had good reason."

"_Good reason!?_" I exclaim. "I refused to - to do _that_ and you threatened me so I was forced into doing it anyway!"

"And it could have all been avoided were you more open to cooperation." Slickly and quickly, like a snake stalking its prey, Derren Ingot sweeps the glass from my hand and put it down on the table next to his, then walks two strides towards me, making me step back.

The wall hits my head. Hard.

"Are you more open to cooperation after my little..." Mr. Ingot trails his fingers up my stomach lightly, making me feel nauseous right to my very core. "...discussion with President Snow?"

His fingers follow the curve of my breasts as he smiles sharply, his eyes trained on the motion of his hand. Though sickness swells in my gut and forces it's way up my throat, I force my head to bob up and down stiffly. Mr. Ingot and I share an understanding; I do not have to pretend like I am enjoying myself or act as I usually would with a client - on the contrary, he seems to like it when I don't pretend. He knows it is all an act, anyway; who have I got to fool? - so long as I comply to his wishes without a peep.

So, when I vocally reassure him that I will cooperate, my throat scratchy with self-loathing and my skin itchy with disgust, Mr. Ignot's smile widens into a sardonic grin and he leans in close, his putrid breath washing over my wriggling skin as his thick cologne clogs my nose. "Good," he mutters, "good." And then, Derren's thick lips slap onto mine and he is kissing me ferociously.

At first, I have to force back a retch; he tastes of cigarettes and that foul red wine, and his mouth is sloppy with saliva. I can feel the harshness of his tongue as he parts my lips with it and pushes it into my mouth and I just about feel, through the numbness that begins to encase me as always, the fire that bursts to life in my chest, roaring like a lion in the midst of a war. I think about how much I hate this, how much I hate Snow, how much I hate myself; then I am being tugged against his body and his hands have deftly unzipped my dress, slipping onto my skin with his feminine nails raking down my back.

I kiss him back, of course. I have to. If I don't cooperate, he will complain, and I will be a strike away from disaster. I _must_ comply or else, what will I have? What will I start? What will reverberate from my sheer and utter unwillingness to submit to a man as vile as Mr. Ingot?

After a few minutes - perhaps it is hours; time is lost on me - Mr. Ignot pulls back and breathes in harshly, still managing a sadistic grin in my direction. "My, that complaint certainly did wonders. Didn't it, Miss Everdeen?"

My hands tighten into fists by my side but I only nod, gritting my teeth. I have never hated someone with such an intensity as I hate this man. Perhaps I loathe Snow this much; perhaps I loathe Mr. Rhineheart this much... but right now, my vision blurred with revulsion and my heart pounding in contempt, I can only feel so much hatred for _him. _For Mr. Ignot.

Maybe, even, for myself.

Mr. Ingot suddenly lies back and settles himself on the sofa, his arms reaching out across the back with one hand cupping his reclaimed drink. I go to sit down but he flicks his fingers at me, ushering me backwards and forcing my feet to stumble to a stop in front of him, a few feet away. His grin is dark and lecherous and he shuffles slightly, exhaling heavily. "Strip," he says, eyes scanning my body.

I freeze up. _This is like last time._ Except, last time he- "Strip?" I ask, feeling painstakingly caught-off-guard.

He laughs though it is without amusement. "Sorry, didn't I speak in English? _Strip."_ When I remain hesitant, he looks down to his cuticles, humming lightly. "Well, all right then. I'm sure President Snow will be _delighted_ to hear from me again."

The way he says it - the way he says _delighted _like he already _knows_ what Snow will do - makes me immediately grip at the strap of my dress and pull it down my arm before doing the same with the other slowly, my heart beating out of my chest in jagged, uneven lines. I can feel his stare lingering over me like toxic gas, looming in the air around me, and it scratches against my skin and makes me burn. With my gut throbbing inside of me and a hate trembling in the strict confinement of my veins, I let the dress fall to the floor with a _slap_, puddling around my feet and making me go cold inside._  
_

"Good," the man purrs, leaning forward now. He takes a sip of his wine but his eyes remain fixed on me like a dog to a bone. "Good..."

Now, I feel something in me snap; some sort of restraint that holds me back from ripping out his hair or screaming or crying but I ignore it, desperately; I _must_ ignore it. So instead, with bile rising in my throat, I quickly unclasp my bra and push down my pants, and then Mr. Ingot has shoved himself to his feet and taken two quick strides towards me and I'm folded in his arms and his slithering lips are attached to my neck and practically any piece of skin he can find. He pushes me into his bedroom and down on to the bed, not bothering to speak; he gives no word of notice when he handcuffs my hands together, around the headboard of his bed. I hadn't noticed what he was doing because I was so absorbed in my bleary self-hate-filled daze, then I felt the cold, unyielding metal pinching mercilessly at my skin.

I block it all out as soon as it begins. I shut out his heavy handed touch against my body, the heat of his gaze and the rancid taste of his sweaty lips on mine. I ignore the carnal desire that I can see blistering inside of him and the lust that ebbs from his being, and the way my own body ripples in distaste and flinches in disgust. No matter what happens, no matter how hard he presses or how quickly he does what he does, I force myself to respond in some sort of way by simply letting him have me. Completely. His low moans slap against my skin mockingly and his pants flush out in the room, blotting in the air and billowing out like smoke from a camp-fire.

I don't know what I'm thinking whilst he does all of this. I feel the frustration; the pure panic and upset that suffocates me as I'm restrained by the handcuffs, forced to feel like a prisoner - much like I felt in the Games, which makes memories and emotions slam into me so hard I forget how to breathe; I feel angry at myself, at every single person I know for idly standing by and at my loved ones for being so special to me that I endure _this_ for them; I feel the constant dread and the dirtiness; the pure and blinding revulsion that bleeds through my skin and tickles my pulsing flesh. My thoughts, though, are foreign to me. Perhaps I think of nothing - the dead can't think, can they? The dead can't think. Not at all.

When he's done with me, he slumps to the side, wheezing and breathing hard and ignoring the crumpling mask of indifference plastering my face. I think my wrists are bleeding, the chains are so tight; my hands feel numb and my skin is puckered and sore, and just when I think he's about to let me go as he undoes the restraints, I am shoved on to the floor and he is looming in front of me, smirking like the devil himself.

My mouth cracks open to speak but nothing falls from my lips. I don't know what I want to say. I can't beg or plead or cry, nor do I want to. That is not me. What I want is a good long sleep and a overdose of antidepressants, and the biggest, warmest hug from Finnick I will ever receive. In fact, I want it so badly I can feel it burning in the back of my eyes and alienating everything else that is important. Everything feels estranged. I just want _Finnick_ and his undying care and love that I so recklessly threw away for a man I do not even love and doubts of my self-worth.

Perhaps the overdose of antidepressants is all I need, in that case.

Mr. Ingot's hand grips me by the throat and he pulls me in close to him, squeezing so hard I gag. I can feel my throat bruising and I know I'm not taking in enough oxygen but when he releases me, it's not much better; Mr. Ingot tugs on my hair and pulls my face closer to his crotch.

"Oh no, Miss Everdeen," he says, his brow lined with dots of perspiration. "I am not nearly finished with you."

* * *

President Snow's reception is empty when I get there. I'm not sure whether to be glad that I'm alone or lost that Finnick is nowhere in sight; I have thrown up twice tonight already and I can feel another on-set coming on, and I feel so empty that I'm sure being around someone so life-filled as Finnick - even if that life is sometimes murky and unattainable - will at least make me able to cry.

Then again, I think I cried in front of Mr. Ingot. Funny how that only made him more eager.

Something crawls up my throat and I retch silently, forcing a shaky hand against my parted lips and screwing my eyes shut. I can feel my body trembling and my eyes are stinging with that familiar anguish which is more like an emptiness, a nothingness, than anything else. It's as if the tears are vessels and are not droplets.

"Katniss?" someone asks softly. "Hey, _hey_. What is it? Kat, what happened?"

Oh,_ Finnick_. Oh, God, what do I do? What do I say to him? How can I deny him when my heart leaps at the sound of his voice and I drink in his presence like the finest of hot chocolate? Then again, how can I let him be with and know someone as tragic as me?

When Finnick's arm wrap around me I do not hesitant to bury my head in his neck, breathing in his smell and letting his warmth soak through me. My skeleton rattles as I shake in his arms and I know I am crying but I can't stop; how can you stop crying when all you have to live for seemingly becomes the very object of your hate, or the very bane of your existence?! I am only living to keep other people living - how stupid is that? What a thing I have become. I barely value my own life.

Perhaps Annie had... had a good theory. A good idea. She managed to escape before she could even begin the torture. Torture I am forced to endure to keep people I both love and resent alive.

"_Katniss,_" Finnick says softly, his voice breaking slightly. "Damn it, what are you doing to me...?"

We sit there in silence after that for who knows how long. When I pull away my eyes are red-rimmed and I feel as hollow as my tears, and I briefly notice Finnick looks like he has been crying, too. I am too exhausted tonight, though. So exhausted I can barely remember how to walk.

"What happened, Kat?" Finnick asks. His eyes bore into mine, their sea-coloured depths rocking with concern and filled with bitterness. I know immediately the bitterness is not directed to me but I don't understand why not. After all I have said and all I have done, I am surprised he is still here. "Katniss, what... What's that?"

I don't know what he's talking about and settle for a look of masked confusion, unable to string a sentence together for the moment. Finnick's thumb brushes down the side of my temple and goosebumps erupt down my spine but I ignore them as his touch lightly trails my cheekbone and I see both anger and upset flare inside of him.

"Who did this?" he asks. I suddenly realise he is talking about a bruise. _My_ bruise. Something which rose after Derren Ingot-

I clear my throat. When I speak my voice is scratchy. "You know how it goes, Finnick," I say, smiling tightly and without emotion. "Some clients prefer things done in a certain... way."

Telling Finnick I did not gain my bruises during sex or anything even linked to sex is not an option because he would not respond well at all; I gained the bruises because Mr. Ingot liked pushing me around and having violent dominance over me, knowing that he was in the position to treat me like a punching bag because, if I refused or fought back, he would send in another complaint. A complain probably big enough to have little Primrose tortured and killed.

Before Finnick can respond, I push myself to my feet and flinch as my wrists collide; Finnick takes my hands and peers down at them with a bleakness overtaking him. I don't meet his gaze. Out of shame. "Come on," I say, pressing past him after gently pulling my hands from his. "We've got to talk to Snow..."

I know we shouldn't bother. Snow will want the money; he'll find some way of asserting his dominance over Rhineheart then he will ensure the video goes as planned because he is a money-sucking, spiteful little man with more power in his little finger than I have in my whole arm. He will gain nothing but profit from a viral video of Finnick and I getting intimate, and he knows it, too.

That is immediately what he tells us when we inform him of the plan, even if he is, at first, a little bitter.

"Think of the money, Mr. Odair," he said to Finnick, his swollen lips the colour of his roses he so loved. "Think of the recognition."

"It is _not_ what we agreed!" Finnick argued. "You can't seriously be okay with this. He went against your authority."

"And that will be dealt with. For now, you and Miss. Everdeen both better get some rest. You've got tributes to look after and videos to film, after all."


End file.
